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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515801">Comorbidity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briarwitched/pseuds/Briarwitched'>Briarwitched</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of Madness and Mammals [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:35:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>184,663</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briarwitched/pseuds/Briarwitched</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to Dysthymia] Yassen always knew Hunter's stupid orphan was going to get him killed. Forced to make a deal with the SVR as a stop gap measure, the contract killer touches down in his homeland, leaping straight from the frying pan and into the fire: while the SVR might be willing to put up with them, that certainly doesn't mean MI6, Scorpia, or even the Russian mob are feeling nearly as forgiving. Destiny is fucking with him again. It's fine. He'll fix it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Of Madness and Mammals [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1215210</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>704</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY, EVERYONE! I'm so stoked to get this story out. I've been working on it for ages and it has broken my brain at least a dozen times, if not more. Again, thank you everyone who posted comments on my last story-- my terrible reply time aside, I really did read and treasure all of them. They definitely help motivate me to keep writing and refining and editing to the bitter end. :)</p><p>See you next week.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Feeling rather than seeing the improvised airfield they’d arrived at only a few minutes ago disappear beneath them, Yassen watched from behind clear-sheeted plastic as the surgeons double checked the straps holding Alex in place on the operating table. Apart from running a few IV lines and giving the boy anesthesia, little else had been done to prep the boy directly for surgery; there simply hadn’t been enough time on the way. None of the other medical staff made any attempt to walk as the ascent progressed, bracing themselves patiently against the vertical climb and quietly gesturing to the various readouts and monitors displaying Alex’s heart rate and blood pressure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jet’s engines wound high and drowned out Abramoff’s quiet offers of a drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lamp cleared his throat as the plane stabilized at cruising altitude; the second the floor leveled out, the surgeons stood and began moving around in their improvised surgical room, drawing Yassen’s gaze. “The boy is on the plane. Now that we have your initial demands settled, it’s time for ours. What do you know about Estrov, Mr. Gregorovich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a thin look from his seat on the plush white leather chairs. Perhaps ironically, the interior of the jet reminded him of Air Force One. Glossy wood paneling, soft lighting, a crystal laden bar cart that probably cost more than the value of the last six cars Yassen had stolen for their time on the run combined. He’d been expecting a military transport or something that could be disguised as a civilian aircraft. Either Lamp or Abramoff were far more important than he was led to believe or they wanted Yassen’s information badly enough to try to impress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He suspected it was the second. That could be problematic or a boon. It suggested they wanted something more than simply information about his hometown. Something requiring an ongoing relationship. While reassured that he had more than one bargaining chip, apparently, Yassen knew it was critical that he play his hand carefully. “That’s a broad question, Mr. Lamp. As I said before, I lived there as a child. Surely you don’t want me to detail the location of every potato field and tool shed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” Abramoff said, breaking in with a tip of his glass. The ice plinked against the edge. “That would be very helpful.” He waved his hand as Yassen paused. “We’ll get there, we’ll get there. First--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a string of muttered curses from the surgical area. Something metallic being set down hard on the tray. “I can’t cut through. Get me the bigger shears--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen experienced a split second of horror before he realized the actual problem. He held up a hand to halt Abramoff and stood. The security escorts, positioned across the aisle from him, surged to their feet. “You’ll have to pull his shirt off,” he called, to the surgeons. “It’s bulletproof and stab-proof.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A surgical-scrub-clad man, closest to Yassen through the plastic wrap, squinted at him with bushy white eyebrows. “It’s what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just pull it off. It won’t cut,” Yassen said heavily, sinking back into his chair. After a moment’s hesitation and a nod from Lamp, the surgeons complied and began working again. He made a mental note to get Alex’s shirt back from him: he’d likely want it since it was a gift from the gadget man, even if it had limited use after taking so many bullets. At least Yassen had the sense to grab his iPod from his pocket before the CIA arrived. No doubt they’d be happy to “lose” it for the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies,” he said, turning back to Abramoff. “Where were we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not worry. We have plenty of time. The flight is sixteen hours long.” Abramoff glanced at his security detail as they settled back into their seats. “Tell me what you know of Estrov’s destruction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside them on the other side of the sheeted plastic barrier, a surgeon barked a quick order. Two nurses scurried to his side, offering tools and gauze. The plane bounced gently, the whine of the engines shifting ever so slightly. Was it enough to disrupt the delicate cuts of even the most steady-handed surgeon?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen forced himself to look away. “The plant that we believed to be a pesticides factory had an accident. Chemical. The alarms went off. I found out later that it had been secretly producing anthrax and other biochemical weapons. Everyone ran to see what was going on, except for me. The military came with helicopters and fire bombed the village.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff studied him over the rim of his glass. “But you got away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was warned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By who?” Abramoff scowled, as Yassen declined to answer right away. “We had a deal, Mr. Gregorovich. You must tell us everything. We know Estrov was firebombed and buried. We know you were there. We need to know how </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> experienced it and what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> saw.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his insides clench. He should have known. The instant he’d made whatever promises had been necessary to get Alex on the plane, he knew that he would have to speak of that day. Of his family. He’d have much rather preferred to disembowel himself with a rusty knife and watch his own blood pool on this soft, leather chair than speak to these strangers leaning on the edge of their seats like vultures waiting to pick over the carrion of his memories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It couldn’t be helped. This was the price of Alex’s life. The universe had given him every sign that it wouldn’t be nominal. Wasn’t he saying just an hour ago that he’d do anything? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little talking should be cheap, but it wasn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his hand drift atop his pack of cigarettes, squeezing them through the fabric of his jeans. Plastic sheeting couldn’t completely wall off the surgical theatre from the air supply of the rest of the cabin: it had been secured using an efficient combination of ties and tape, but obviously wasn’t perfectly air tight. Unlike the actual Air Force One, this jet hadn’t been built to accommodate emergency situations such as surgery. If he was worried about second hand smoke before, it had only quadrupled since: Alex was only breathing because of the machines hooked up to him at the moment. “My parents warned me. They worked there. I was fourteen. When the alarms went off, I was at our home on the edge of the village…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen kept his account short and clinical. Describing it in English made it easier, somehow. Less personal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, Abramoff leaned forward, drink forgotten. “What happened after you and Leo ran into the woods?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen met his eager gaze with a cool one of his own. “I said I would speak of Estrov and it’s fall. I have done so. Now it is your turn. Tell me why the SVR has any interest in these events at all. I doubt you could elicit such cooperation from the CIA for the sake of simple curiosity. Estrov is but one tiny example in a sea of human misery. ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting back, Abramoff exchanged glances with Lamp. So far, none of this little interview had been conducted in Russian. Yassen took that to mean that this was, at least in part, a joint operation. “Your question is fair. As I’m sure you know, things have changed greatly in Russia during the last few decades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged, making no effort to conceal his disinterest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yet some things stay the same. There is a rift in the government between the old administration and the new. It has always been there. Poisonous legacies of the old KGB units and antiquated relationships with the bratva that somehow never seem to allow for better changes, despite promises. Kiriyenko has only done what he was permitted to do. With his term ending next year, there is a window of opportunity to divert influence away from the old guard. To break from the corruption of the past. These attitudes and relationships have no place in a modern Russia. They offer little benefit. Why should the son keep paying the father’s price?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen flicked a glance at Lamp. “I take it the CIA would rather the new administration be successful in this endeavor. More so than they want to conceal the embarrassments of MI6.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lamp gave him a thin smile. “Let’s just say Joe Byrne would be delighted for the people of Estrov to get the justice they deserve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are dead. They deserve nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff folded his arms, studying Yassen’s face closely. “And you? Do you not wish to see the men responsible for the deaths of your friends and family stand trial?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. So that was their chief selling point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe in justice.” Yassen raised an eyebrow as both men stiffened ever so slightly. Their surprise was a little entertaining: while most in his profession possessed the moral and ethical regard of sharks in a kiddie pool, it appeared they rather expected his personal involvement to bridge that gap. “Those truly responsible will never see the inside of a cell. The powerful. The wealthy. Perhaps you will catch whoever pulled the trigger or fired the missiles. Perhaps it will be enough to tear down the remnants of the old administration or force others into early retirement. Perhaps you will succeed beyond your wildest dreams and force a powerful man to pay a fine. That is of little value to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lamp’s eyes tightened, though he didn’t seem terribly surprised. “I think it’s safe to assume that your freedom does have value to you. That and the Rider boy. Why don’t we start there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jet hit another patch of turbulence. Equipment rattled in the surgical area. A tray overturned, sending instruments crashing to the floor. A flurry of urgent voices started up. At the operating table, a surgeon hovered over the boy’s prone form, standing stock still, his bloody tweezers bobbing with the current as he struggled to hold the metal away from the wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear coiled in Yassen’s stomach like trapped smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex should be in a real hospital. Smithers had better have a damn good explanation for this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen turned back to the two government spooks, drawing on every meditation technique Malagosto had ever given him to keep his face and voice smooth. “Then we shall get to the heart of the matter. Precisely what do you hope to accomplish by securing me? You clearly already know of Estrov. Nothing I’ve told you adds significantly to your information. We are all aware of my reputation and employment history. I will hardly make a trustworthy witness on the stand if justice is what you truly seek.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff scoffed, dismissing Yassen’s point with a shrug. “Your employment is of no concern to the SVR, at least not compared to the value of your cooperation on this matter. I wouldn’t call your former profession ideal, but we have forgiven worse. Not that we officially have anything to forgive.” The liaison offered him a rueful smile. “Luckily for us, you were never formally charged with anything. To do so would have required that MI6 provide you or your body for court proceedings as almost all of your proveable crimes with Cray span several borders. Obviously they could not afford to do so, considering your secret incarceration. Additionally, they have cited no witnesses to your terrorist activities within their own country; Scorpia is not in the habit of leaving those anyway. Being a 'person of interest’ is not the same, even if they can tie your DNA to a few crime scenes here and there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took a moment to turn that over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What felt like a glaring oversight made a certain kind of sense in the intelligence world. MI6 had no real reason to move forward with prosecuting him if it meant admitting he was alive. Alex had certainly believed him dead when he’d approached him in prison so it was likely that most other intelligence agencies had been told much the same. A posthumous prosecution would also be problematic, given the international interest in closing the various case files on Yassen’s operations: all kinds of tissue samples and autopsy photos would be requested of MI6 by their intelligence allies, requests they would have little to no good reason to refuse. Questions would be asked. Apart from collecting basic DNA analysis and fingerprinting for the sake of recording his death, it was far more advantageous to leave all of his suspected crimes unresolved and see if they could get him to flip on his employers in the meantime-- while Yassen likely had dozens of cases open to his name, the organization he represented had thousands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still. He had assumed that they had him recorded as guilty of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn’t. It might not matter either way. If they simply hadn’t made any serious charges public knowledge, it was possible to stall any legal attempts to apprehend him despite whatever evidence they might reveal about his arrest. Alex’s incarceration in Gibraltar was hardly legitimate and a good lawyer might be able to poke holes in whatever abnormalities were no doubt present in Yassen’s as well, all from the safety of a country that wasn’t known for playing nicely with extraditions anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff continued, shifting neatly on his own plush chair. “There are few records that you even exist. Prosecution would take years in their own courts. Again, it does not concern us. Even if MI6 could somehow prove your criminal record overnight beyond the shadow of doubt, we do not need you to function as a credible witness so much as living proof.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen crossed his arms. “In what regard?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anthrax is a bacteria. It evolves and can be guided thusly. That’s why so many vaccines exist and why there is the need to create new strains to circumvent them. The factory at Estrov created one such divergent strain, one that no other country would have the immunity to already. The vaccine your mother gave you would be unique to it. You might lie, but the DNA of your immunity cannot.” Abramoff leaned forward, eyes blazing with sudden, eager clarity. “They can say that Estrov never existed, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> exist. They can call you a liar, but your blood has anthrax antibodies unique to that factory. Your DNA matches the bones of victims no doubt hidden in the soil. You are proof enough that they have lied without even opening your mouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen studied him without speaking. Interesting. The scale of this particular bone to pick would be enormous. There would be testing and testifying, excavations and charges. Yassen might not be an expert in any particular field of law, but he knew enough to understand the scope of what this endeavor would require: likely years of covert preparations followed by an almost equal amount of time hashing out the legal battle in the open. It would buy Alex plenty of time to recover, plenty of time for Yassen to plan their next move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could use this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And where does the flash drive on Air Force One come into this?” Yassen sat back in his chair, features stilled in a facade of unconcern. He should have never written the damned thing. One mistake, but a big one. He’d meant to leave some kind of record, some kind of legacy; borne out of some poor impulse in his psyche, one he fully expected would die with him one day. No one had ever been meant to see it; the man who’d designed it for him had assured him it would evade detection even if outright examined. He’d almost forgotten about it, but now, to think that the various intelligence agencies had been pouring over the worst experiences of his life-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It should be inconsequential. He was flooded with rage anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he hadn’t let go of the past as much as he liked to think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lamp exchanged a slow look with Abramoff, before crossing his arms. “As I said, we haven’t been able to fully decipher the decryption. Only chunks. Names. One of which showed up too frequently to be coincidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Estrov.” Yassen leveled them both with a cool glance, suddenly glad he and Alex had discussed his past missions in good detail. “Combined with my ties to it in MI6’s files, I assume you felt that this confirmed my origins.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Lamp nodded. “Which brings me to another question. Exactly what is on that flash drive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hardly an avoidable question. Yassen gave an indifferent tilt of his head, as though the answer was trivial. “You might call it a record. A journal perhaps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned him a surprised blink. “That’s a rather risky thing to carry on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen set his jaw. His professional reputation was taking a number of hits these days. “Says the supposedly top intelligence agency unable to decipher more than a handful of words of it. Perhaps not as risky as you think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Decryption issues aside,” Abramoff interjected. “The important thing is that we have now confirmed these things to be true. You are from Estrov. You witnessed the destruction. We must move forward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What sort of cooperation are you asking for?” Yassen demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff leaned in. “Full. You testify, you give blood, you tell us everything you remember. Every neighbor’s name. Every scrap of village gossip. Every potato field and tool shed, as you said. We don’t know the exact coordinates where Estrov was located, but we will find it. Ground penetrating sonar should make the task swifter. What you tell us about the layout of the village will help us identify buildings and structures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Surely there are others who can do this for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They do not dare. The military sent soldiers after anyone listed on the census records in the weeks after its destruction, even if they were not in Estrov at the time. Rosna was also neutralized, in a supposed accident; they claimed a local farmer dumped pesticides into a stream and contaminated the water source, killing hundreds. No loose threads. However, you are correct that there are others. Villagers in, say, Kirsk who had relatives under different names in Estrov. Friends. Business associates. No one will come forward for fear of reprisal, but you have no such fear, do you? Once the tide has turned, they will speak. They will want resolution. Your testimony will loosen their tongues.” Abramoff waved a hand. “In exchange, you will never face prosecution for your own crimes. You will be free.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his eyes narrow. “That’s not enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m open to hearing your demands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know who that boy is?” Yassen asked him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff eyes flicked to the operating theatre. “Alex Rider. The child spy MI6 has been desperately trying to track down and conceal. We have quite the file on him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course they did. Alex was the worst kept secret of the intelligence community after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He stays with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff waved another hand. “Done. Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to ensure that you understand,” Yassen said, every word said with calm, frostbitten emphasis. Even Lamp looked startled at his sudden shift in tone. Good. He had their attention. “He will not be extradited. He does not go ahead of me to a secure location without my explicit permission. If I have any reason to think that MI6 is allowed any kind of access to him, I will be gone. If any intelligence agency attempts to contact or interfere with him, I will be gone. If he has anything less than a normal, quiet life attending school, I will be gone. There will be no cooperation. No Estrov. Nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff scoffed and crossed his legs, glancing out the small round window beside his chair into the pitch black of night. “I will tell you twice: MI6 does not concern us. With Sarov disowned, we have no skin in their little spy game being made public. He will not be returned, regardless of whatever fuss they would like to make.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lamp shrugged as Yassen’s gaze turned to him. “We’ve already insulated ourselves from the little public relations nightmare he presents. There are no records of his time in Miami. We have no official interest in him. The CIA’s involvement in both of your lives ends when this plane touches the ground.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t doubt it. The CIA had a long and proud history of throwing around secret support, placing bets, and stepping away just in time to avoid blame. Whoever Abramoff was gunning for to take over after Kiriyanko was obviously their new favorite. Even so... “Will Byrne have a personal interest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The deputy director snorted. “That brat leaves a trail of guilt wherever he goes, doesn’t he? Joe’s got plenty of that, but it’s nothing new. I doubt he’ll do anything so long as he believes the kid is alright wherever he is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff broke in. “And he will be. Alex will be well provided for in Russia. The best doctors and facilities to help him with his schizophrenia. Protection from MI6--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not schizophrenic,” Yassen informed him. “MI6 drugged him with an experimental hormone blocker called A216 to delay his growth and keep him in the field. It has psychiatric side effects but they will fade with time. He will resume a normal life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we will assist him with that,” Abramoff said without missing a beat. “I’m sure there are doctors who can help make him whole. Surgeries. Therapies. Treatments. Whatever he needs. What else do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered Abramoff carefully. It was clear that the man had plenty to gain from whatever power shifts were currently in motion. While Yassen couldn’t exactly swan-dive off of the jet if he didn’t like his offer, it seemed he still had room to negotiate. His cooperation was of value, regardless of what Abramoff said about his blood being all the evidence they technically needed. “My final demand is that we not discuss my former employer. It is no secret that I have cut ties with them, but I have no desire to make myself a bigger target than I already am. You can have Estrov, but you cannot have Scorpia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff hesitated. “Your case will be stronger--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My case will not exist if I am dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen watched the information twist it’s way through the other man’s brain. Scorpia was powerful. A threat. The world had plenty of grudges against the organization and Yassen could be used to dismantle them down to the rafters. Someone higher on the food chain than Abramoff could climb the career ladder by taking down a heavyweight in the black market intelligence world, and Yassen’s deal would seem like the perfect opportunity on paper. Unless Yassen made his position clear now, it would almost certainly come up later. Abramoff was a representative of the SVR-- they would not be having this conversation if he wasn't authorized to negotiate on their behalf. They would be bound to his promises. If they modified the terms of their agreement to suit their every whim after the fact, Yassen’s cooperation could be threatened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without Alex, Yassen was quite the flight risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another patch of turbulence rattled the metal tools on the trays in the surgical area. Yassen let his eyes flutter shut only briefly, head turning in the direction of the surgery, knowing full well it was observed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As loath as he was to give any sign of internal discomfort, the idea that Yassen’s mid-life crisis would remain private was a ship that had long since sailed. It was just as well, however much it made him want to snap the neck of every intelligence agent on this damn plane. Apart from Scorpia’s obvious attempts to kill them both, Yassen’s attachment to Alex was the main reason the SVR had to believe he wouldn’t bolt shortly after landing. That he had something to lose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least it was coming full circle. Finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three hours ago, as he sat opposite Steiner in the cabin, his fondness for Hunter’s stupid fucking oprhan had been the only thing that Yassen thought would get him killed. Now, it was the only thing that made him remotely trustworthy. Cooperation based on self-preservation was hard for an agency to trust in a man with Yassen’s skillset; he’d have never been caught were it not for Alex. It was clear that Alex could not maintain such a lifestyle, however, and if Yassen refused to leave Alex behind….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was ironic and embarrassing and just so par for the course, but this was his life now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff nodded. “Very well. No Scorpia. Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head. If worse came to worse, Alex would be well enough to go back on the run in a few weeks. They could find another place to settle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Assuming the surgery went well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fantastic.” Lamp said, as they hit another patch of rough air. Something metallic crashed to the floor, followed by a surgeon swearing loudly. The deputy-director of the CIA watched Yassen’s eyes flutter shut for a second time and asked, “Are you sure I can’t get you that drink, Gregorovich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head, exhaling slow and forcefully through his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There would be time for a drink later. Right now it wasn’t his turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Monday, everyone! Since quarantine has given me weird, night-owl hours, I thought it was a good idea to get this out to you guys as soon as possible. As always, I love hearing your thoughts and comments.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was sound. That was the first thing Alex registered, before other sensations began to return. Sluggish. Everything was sluggish. His brain could hardly keep up with what little he could sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beeping, steady. Familiar. Voices. He knew one very well, but the others were strange. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hardly mattered, considering they were talking gibberish anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things wrapped around his arms, twisted. Had he been captured and bound? Drugged? Alex shifted, but didn’t seem to make much progress. His body felt heavy and disconnected. Perhaps he hadn’t been captured by someone. Rarely did that involve being in a comfortable reclined position with something soft propping up his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp smell of disinfectant mingled with cotton, near his nose. Alex shifted again, suddenly becoming aware of the pillowcase beneath his cheek. Cracked open one eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nearby gibberish halted. Yassen’s face swam into view. “Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” Alex winced as fluorescent light stabbed his eyeballs. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and tried again, hoping for clarity this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His second attempt was more successful. Yassen stood beside him, arms crossed loosely in front of himself, posture tense to Alex’s foggy brain. He looked down, seeing IV lines and monitor wires tangled around his arms. White sheets. Hospital bed rails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had the FBI caught up to them? He lifted a hand, mostly to confirm that he hadn’t been handcuffed to the railing, the way he had been when he’d woken up in the intermediary facility shortly before being sent to the Gibraltar prison. Nothing. He didn’t look arrested, but then why was Yassen so tense? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced about. Standard hospital room beneath strong fluorescent light, but beside the door stood two men in suits. Guarding stances. Hazy and only half able to see, Alex could still spot a spook of some governmental variety without a drop of effort. Maybe that’s why Yassen was on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘here are we?” he managed to slur, shutting his eyes again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt Yassen steer his hand back onto his bed. “Recovery room. You left surgery an hour ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. Surgery. Alex had done that before. “Caught?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not exactly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex furrowed his brows, but couldn’t quite muster the willpower to open his eyes again. Too much effort. “In Denver?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A short pause. “No. Outside Koltsovo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex popped open an eye. “Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a city in Russia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… Russia was supposed to be ruined. Perhaps he was remembering wrong, but he doubted it. He’d been quite sad that Ferri had ruined Russia for Yassen. Alex searched his brain, but couldn't find any recollection of traveling. Nothing. He remembered Yassen telling him that the CIA was outside, but if they hadn’t been caught… Perhaps it was the surgery drugs, but that made no sense either. He barely remembered being shot, but he was almost positive that had happened in the United States. “You sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted softly. “I’m quite certain, little Alex. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it sorted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded, realizing how heavy his eyelids felt suddenly. A whiteboard on the wall beside his bed caught his eye before he could dismiss it, however. He squinted, but no matter how much he tried, the letters only made half sense. “Do I need glasses?” he asked, aghast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your eyes are fine, Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pointed. “But I can’t read it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because you don’t know any Russian,” Yassen said, sounding a touch amused to Alex’s ears. Or smug. Maybe he was just imagining it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled and let his lids slide shut. “I know a little,” he insisted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was only half-true. Alex had been working on his ear for pronunciation in preparation for living in Russia and Yassen had some choice phrases. He might not know the meanings, but he’d worked on the sounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hummed, already feeling himself drifting off. “Chert, gav-no, zhizn’ ebet meya, zho-pa,” he mumbled and promptly fell asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen met the amused glances of the guards at the door and shook his head. Fiddled with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, but didn’t bother tugging them free. Alex would be disoriented from the anesthesia for a while longer. So long as he didn’t hazily start rattling off sensitive information or begin panicking in a strange environment, Yassen could deal with his nicotine cravings, faint embarrassment, and whatever else the boy’s rambling netted him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room was probably the nicest the hospital had, considering it was on a military base. Standard steel furniture and the ever-present scent of antiseptic, though the walls were a soft green and two padded chairs had been set to either side of the hospital bed. Yassen had yet to sit, not that he’d devolved to pacing yet. An impressionist landscape painting hung opposite the bed, above which a large television had been mounted to the wall. A small window overlooked a truly scenic brick wall: utterly absent of any windows or points of interest at all. Secure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rap sounded on the door. The guard on the right tugged it open after having a short conversation in low tones through a crack. Yassen wasn’t entirely sure why they bothered-- this entire wing had restricted access and required personnel to be buzzed in between twenty foot stretches of hallway. Pretending to interrogate every person who came to the door was hardly convincing him of the room’s relative protection. He’d infiltrated similar setups and already had an accurate accounting of the likely points of entry, so the pageantry of security theatre was wasted on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff seemed eager to assure Yassen that everything was in order, however. It made a certain sense that they would put a great deal of trouble into telegraphing the SVR’s compliance with his demands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Sokolov nodded to Yassen and consulted his chart as he strode into the room, a younger male nurse trailing him and pushing a small cart. Both of them possessed the ramrod posture of military men, though they lacked the actual uniforms that normally accompanied it. As the nurse set about rattling off Alex’s vitals and checking his IVs, Sokolov allowed the pages of his clipboard to fall gently to its surface and glanced up. “Has he woken yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged lightly and looked away from Alex’s physician to study the boy instead. The hospital gown seemed to make his waxen complexion seem even worse. “For a moment, but he wasn’t very lucid. You just missed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, good. As expected. He should wake more permanently in a few hours.” The doctor spared a quick glance at the nurse, who finished checking vitals and moved on to checking Alex’s surgical stitches and bandages. “As I was explaining earlier, his surgery went quite well despite his relatively poor health and the issues during transport. I just finished reviewing the post-op images and it seems that the American surgeons were able to extract all of the bone and bullet fragments after all, as well as seal his artery, so it should just be tissue and muscle damage to contend with moving forward. There was some concern that his pelvic bone had become unstable, but it appears that it remained largely intact and should not require follow up surgery. We were very fortunate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Yassen couldn’t help how his fingers drifted down to his pack of cigarettes again. As much as he knew Alex was as secure as possible with the guards, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to rely on that for something as casual as a smoke break. At least for another forty minutes. He forcefully moved his hand. “What should I expect of his recovery?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These things are always tricky to say,” the doctor told him matter-of-factly. He strode over the small desk and wiggled the mouse before tapping gently at the keyboard. “But I’m optimistic. He’s young and will have the best care. In a few days, we’ll get him upright and moving about. A few weeks of rest and physical therapy should do much for him, assuming we encounter no complications.” The doctor paused. “However, I think we both know that he will likely have some, given his hallucinations and drug addiction. Hopefully, we can keep both under control long enough for his wounds to heal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded, glancing away. He had managed to ensure the doctor had a solid overview of Alex’s health issues as soon as they’d arrived. The man didn’t know everything, however. Just enough to assess the success of the boy’s improvised mid-air surgery; he was already braced for the conversation about long term care. It would be complicated, he was certain, but unavoidable: they’d only landed at the military hospital less than an hour ago. “What of his other injuries?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sokolov shrugged. “He will need to wake before we can assess them. There was no time to do a full body scan on the flight, but his initial assessment determined that the gunshot wound to his hip was the only life threatening injury he had at the time and so it is the only thing treated. Once I can confirm that he’s recovered from the anesthesia, we can begin addressing his other health concerns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared down at the sleeping teen in the bed. Surely, Alex would be less than delighted to have so many tests run on him. Frankly, Yassen was expecting at least one temper tantrum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guards' stances changed. One of the guards touched his earpiece. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone important was coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff entered with a quick nod to the doctor, followed by an almost identical suited agent to the guards. “Ah, Gregorovich,” Abramoff said by way of greeting. “The doctors say that the boy is doing well. I’m glad to hear it. Before I return to the states, I wanted to introduce you to Artem Vankin. I thought that it would be best this time to introduce him outright. The last thing I need is for you to crush any more of our agents under a semi-truck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow. So Ferri hadn’t sold him out to Scorpia or the CIA-- he’d sold him to the Russians. That was one little mystery solved. Despite however well that had worked out, it certainly didn’t absolve the identity broker of his betrayal or get Yassen’s money back. “I do prefer the personal touch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Noted.” Abramoff gave him a dry look. “You might consider him your handler for the time being. All of our communications going forward will move through him, as well as any requests or questions you have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave a polite nod. “Mr. Gregorovich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At any rate, I must be off,” Abramoff said. “I cannot be out of the states for very long before it is noticed. Mr. Vankin will take you to have your blood drawn. Once that is complete, and you have provided us the passkey for the flash drive, we will give you a few weeks to get settled in before we shall begin--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff stiffened. “Beg pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will not provide the passkey,” Yassen informed him. “The flash drive contains a good deal of information about my dealings with Scorpia. As we agreed, those will not be provided.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff fixed him with a tight stare. “You agreed to provide everything you could concerning Estrov.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I will be happy to detail the things that I recorded concerning it. Were you not so concerned with my testimony before? You shall hear it straight from the source.” Yassen did not break his gaze. “In the meantime, I want the flashdrive back. It doesn’t otherwise concern you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff crossed his arms. “We will be happy to omit the unrelated portions from the official record upon decryption. Scorpia will--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I am equally concerned with the unofficial record,” Yassen said. “I have not lived so long by being stupid. I will not provide the passkey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff studied him for a long moment. “Very well. It would be better to have multiple forms of evidence, but as you said, we have a deal in place already. So long as you provide the same information, I will see to it that the drive is returned to you. Is there anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head as Abramoff offered the barest of goodbyes, now devoting more of his conscious attention to Vankin. Dark haired. A year or two younger than himself. The man’s posture was a touch more relaxed than the guards beside the door, though not quite so relaxed as Abramoff’s had been upon entry. More of a desk agent than a field agent or politician, most likely. Likely with some authority. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Green eyes regarded him cooly, neither inviting nor discouraging judgement. After a moment, Vankin gestured to the room. “We are going to need to draw your blood for the first of several samples. If you would like, we could have it done in here, but it will be faster to have it done in the lab on the next floor. I assure you, the boy will be quite safe with the guards for fifteen minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his lips thin. “I’m more concerned with his mental state. He may begin hallucinating or fail to recall our earlier conversation and panic. Alex has the annoying habit of injuring himself and others. It’s simply not worth the trouble to step away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gestured to Dr. Sokolov, still perched at the desktop computer and entering notes. “I’m sure the doctor can address the hallucinations should they present themselves. Otherwise, every member of your security team speaks English. They can explain to him where he is while we send for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well.” Even though it was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, Yassen followed Vankin from the room. Best to get it over with. While his attachment to Alex might be common knowledge at this point, he’d had enough of people trying to dive into his head today.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thought it might be worth providing the rough translations for Alex's "little bit of Russian". </p><p>Note: I know zero Russian, so I'm relying on some very informative articles for accuracy. Feel free to let me know if I'm woefully incorrect. ;)</p><p>Chert = damn<br/>Gav-no = shit<br/>Zhizn’ ebet meya = life is fucking me<br/>Zho-pa = arse <br/>(note: from what I understand, while zho-pa still carries it's original meaning and insult when used with strangers, it can also be used playfully among loved ones. My general impression is that it's used in a similar manner to Americans occasionally referring to younger family members as "little shits"-- tone and context matter, and can imply affection or scorn.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! As always, thank you so much to everyone who commented. I always want to hear your thoughts, even if you don't have any delicious, delicious criticism for me. ;) Let's me know what's working, you know?</p><p>Today's chapter is a wee bit of a flashback, from Smithers' POV. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers stared at the flashing window filling his laptop screen. Coordinates flickering in red, shifting digits as the panic button began emitting a burst of signal in an effort to discreetly ping as many satellites as possible to triangulate its location as accurately as possible. Somehow, impossibly, despite the sensation of ice water filling his stomach like rising waves swallowing the Titanic, Smithers found himself unable to think of anything else to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, dear,” he murmured aloud again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It broke the stunned spell. Smithers reached into his bag, set neatly beside his hotel room’s desk, and grabbed what appeared to be a heavy duty clipboard, with a small storage compartment. While it did contain a handful of generic writing sheets (that actually could function as a digital screen if you had special lenses), hidden within was a small but effective tablet computer. While it was almost as efficient as his laptop in terms of computing power, it also had another delightful feature Smithers had taken care to design: the ability to copy and mimic any digital device to rest against its surface. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Such as CIA Agent Tamara Knight’s cell phone, which she had briefly rested on the clipboard weeks ago when he’d pretended to be with the Kingman Fire Dept. Well, her and a handful of other agents. It was appalling, if convenient, how many government workers would blindly sign whatever papers were thrust at them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers flicked an anxious glance at his laptop’s screen as Alex’s coordinates kept updating themselves. Either he was on the move, or was deep in the middle of nowhere. It would take another few minutes before his computer could definitely finish its calculations. So far, all it seemed to know was that Alex was somewhere in rural Colorado-- thousands of kilometers of search area. If Alex had activated the button, that meant that the peril was imminent; that he would rather risk being picked up in police custody than go unassisted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There wasn’t much time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers dug into the spoofed phone’s data. While he’d thoroughly explored the contents of the young agent’s cell when he’d first gotten his hooks into it, he now found himself looking for anything that could remotely be of use to him. Tamara had been in contact with the SAS men sent to bring Alex in, including Agent Daniels. Smithers had outfitted that particular field agent once or twice for minor missions and he was surprised to see the man pop up in the American investigation. It had been intriguing, but it hadn’t particularly concerned him compared to the other issues Smithers had been tackling at the time. Discreetly getting ahold of the right people in the courts was hard enough, much less making the case for taking on one of the most influential covert agencies on the planet. Other than confirming that he now had yet another link into the CIA’s databases through Ms. Knight, he’d simply set his computer to notify him anytime certain parameters appeared in her personal messages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, the phone was only a gateway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was that name? Blast. It was on the tip of his tongue. He’d read it in one of the emails he’d managed to burrow into, using Tamara Knight’s backdoor access into her boss’s desktop computer system; the one she had specifically gotten semi-off-the-record access to in order to take advantage of his access into the FBI’s case files and report back to K-Unit. He’d poked around within the last few weeks and read many, many intriguing emails. Smithers wracked his brain for the right search parameters, eyes flitting across the screen. The CIA had their hands in a lot of pots these days, and they certainly weren’t as upfront with MI6 as they pretended to be--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it was. Abramoff. The SVR man who wanted Yassen Gregorovich’s location at all costs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His laptop let out a harsh beep: Alex’s coordinates had been definitively calculated. Finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An image popped up on the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The panic button had one bit of functionality that Smithers had decided to keep to himself. Hidden within was a tiny digital camera. A video recorder would have been better, of course, but he’d been unable to get it to fit in such a small vessel without a larger battery to support it, so the camera was an acceptable compromise. It only had to work once. At the time the button was activated, the camera would pause for three seconds before taking a picture. While there was a decent chance it would capture the inside of the boy’s pocket, there was also the chance that it would give Smithers valuable context on what kind of help to summon. The face of an assailant. A landmark. Something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image was blurry, and set at a bad angle, but it made Smithers blood run cold nonetheless. Alex, pale and propped up on some sort of gurney, eyes shut. Gregorovich pressing a blood stained cloth to his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now or never. Seconds counted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers yanked on his headset, specifically designed by himself to augment and distort his voice. He didn’t bother activating that functionality. Being identified accurately as a MI6 employee on the lam would only do him favors right now. Not that he lacked basic self-preservation. Routing the call through his computer, he ensured it bounced several dozen times across the planet before it dialed out the private number he’d set aside weeks ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It rang twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is this?” Abramoff demanded, though he didn’t sound terribly angry. It must have shown up as an anonymous number on caller ID. Surely an SVR member of his rank got the occasional covert call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Abramoff, my name is Dr. Derek Smithers. Up until a few weeks ago, I worked as Chief Developmental Engineer for MI6 though I have since defected. This is not important however.” Smithers took a deep breath. “I want to give you Yassen Gregorovich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man barely let him finish the name. “You know where he is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have his real-time coordinates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a boy with him. Alex Rider. He’s been shot. He’s losing blood.” Smithers cut off before his voice could betray his active anxiety. He’d half prepared himself for this moment. It was only now that he had to act. “I know that the CIA wishes to support the efforts to overthrow Kiriyenko in the next election by embarrassing the current administration. If you call Byrne and get Alex medical attention without alerting MI6, I will tell you where they are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff sucked on his teeth. “Why would you do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need Alex to testify against Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones. I defected with the intention of making MI6’s abuse of him public.” Smithers shut his eyes and made another compromise. “Please let your CIA contact that I have no intention of going after their agency. I am only interested in prosecuting MI6 regarding his spy career. The SVR has no such concerns, not that I know of, but I wish to assure Joe Byrne that he is not my target. Alex must live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you wish us to assist you with this prosecution on behalf of the child?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As much as it benefits you to make things difficult for Jones, please. If not, just keep him alive.” Smithers took another small breath. He had to sweeten the pot-- it would do Alex no good if the gears of bureaucracy moved too slow to make a difference. “Gregorovich is fond of him, you know. Was close to his father. It will be easy to persuade him to cooperate with you if you offer your help. But hurry. If he dies before you arrive, you will miss Gregorovich entirely and lose your only bargaining chip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abramoff barely hesitated. “Send your coordinates. I will see to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers hung up and forwarded the information, fingers flitting over the keyboard. Technically, he didn’t need Abramoff’s promises: he just needed him to believe him about the Russian assassin’s location. Once they got any kind of medical staff to Colorado, he was confident that Yassen would figure out a way to work Alex into any deals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Assuming the teen survived until then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Forcing himself to inhale evenly, Smithers allowed his hands to slow over the keyboard. No errors now. He’d been on call for the odd agent or two in the field, at least in his early days with MI6. In the last several years, he’d been in more of the development areas than the active field. Not that it would have prepared him for this-- all things considered, he knew Alex far better than any rookie agent he’d ever been assigned to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands shook slightly, but his fingers made no mistakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not only did he believe him, but Abramoff kept his word. Tamara Knight’s phone beeped as a summons went off, directing her to route to the backwoods of Colorado immediately. Top Secret. Medical crew en route. Most of the agents assigned to Alex’s recovery in Kingman had been returned to their original offices, but Knight had been kept nearby in Denver to assist in the desk-search. Smithers tracked the team’s progress as best as he could, only feeling his anxiety grow with every passing second. Team leads sent confirmations and coordinated fleet formations at dizzying speeds as they tore across the interstate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wouldn’t be long now. He just had to wait for the medical updates after they arrived. To know if Alex had-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost missed the flickering of the text window on the clipboard-tablet. Sloppy. He’d automatically switched back to the backdoor access point on his desktop, where he could track the rescue team in real-time from the administrator level account. He’d quite forgotten about Ms. Knight.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Alex in colorado. Outside oakris. Injured. Russians? Top secret. Contact later.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben Daniels took only a split second to respond. </span>
  <b>Acknowledged. Passing along.</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, no, no. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blast it! Agent Daniels might distrust Jones, but he’d still prioritize Alex getting away from the assassin over getting to the bottom of whatever plot she was obviously involved in. Smithers swore in every language he knew how (and ad-libbed in a few others with some gusto). He knew he should have approached Daniels already, but it was hard to tell just exactly how loyal he was to MI6 and just how he would receive Smithers’ plans. A good deal of agents had already proven that they’d look the other way for queen and country, even if it made them a touch uncomfortable to do so with a child’s life on the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be perfectly fair, he had once been one of them himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers had wanted to wait, to see if Daniels could be trusted in the months or years leading up to MI6’s prosecution. To observe carefully. To gauge his responses as the trial unfolded and calculate his instinct to report back to Jones. Just because Daniels might worry about the boy he’d met on his past missions enough to make some private inquiries didn’t necessarily mean he was willing to actively commit treason on his behalf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, it was easy to say that the damage to Alex had already been done. Why risk his own skin over the principle of the thing? Countries were forced to make unethical decisions every day for the safety of millions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was only one thing to do. Calling Daniels now to try and persuade him directly would do zero good. As much as their association had been a pleasant one, Smithers hardly expected Daniels to risk death over a coworker’s word, even if said coworker offered the best tea and biscuits in the damn department (the secret was toffee chips). He had to go directly to the source, as loathe as he was to count on the man. At least he was in a position to do something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a terrifying minute and a half to do an internet search for the proper number. The shrill rings of the phone line felt like the echoes of eternity. His terse conversation with the assassin was like raking nails over flesh. He could hear the exhaustion in the assassin’s voice, but couldn’t begin to bring himself to care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was alive, but not for long. Hiding the blood transfusion evidence was secondary, but Smithers had missed the text messages after all. He couldn’t afford to forget the details. Alex needed him to not forget the details.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! As always, I'd love to get your thoughts, responses, or criticism. Stay safe!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex wasn’t sure when he woke again. Awareness returned to him gradually, one swirling grain of attention at a time. He lay still, letting the tide hurl him up against the beach into waking thought, without bothering to fight it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was speaking in a low voice again, this time joined by an entirely new voice. What was he saying? Alex struggled to make it out, but quickly gave up. He remembered… something. Something about why it didn’t make sense. It would be important soon, but not right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now, Alex was trying his damndest to guard against the creeping realization that something was horribly wrong with his body. It was heavy. Strange. He lay on a bed with a soft mattress beneath him, reclined almost flat. A warming blanket had been spread across him as well, but despite all of this, he wasn’t comfortable. Aches shot through him, almost vibrating with muted urgency. His chest and his hips especially. Now that he noticed that, he couldn’t help but notice the IV lines pressing against his skin or the breathing tube rammed down his nose. Not-quite-terror blossomed in him, but mostly he just felt cranky. The more aware he became, the more he wanted to rip it all off, roll over, and go back to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he could go back into the warm ocean; rolling out with the tide and evading the sandy beach like driftwood. Yassen was here. He could deal with the rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest seemed determined to deal with Alex, however. Just as he was beginning to drift off again, there was a rap on the door. More murmurs. Said door clicked open in the background, echoing shut against the sounds of new footsteps. More talking. Yassen responded. Alex had almost convinced himself that they would leave him alone when the new voice was suddenly by his bedside. A finger propped his eyelid open only to shine a light in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex flinched away and hissed. “Rude!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” said the voice. Cracking open a lid warily, Alex could see the face of a doctor. He assumed. The man was wearing a white coat anyway. His English was heavily accented but clear, which jolted another faint memory in Alex. “It seems you’re awake for some time, no? I’m Dr. NIkolai Sokolov. I hate to make you uncomfortable, but I need to assess you now. I shall be as quick as possible. Do you understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grumbled under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor plowed on regardless. “Can you tell me your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you sod off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s voice was sharp, and-- if Alex could trust his ears-- faintly amused. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Alex</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex opened his mouth, intending to snarkily point out that clearly Yassen had the answer to the doctor’s questions already. Instead, he vomited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Sokolov shoved a small pan under his chin before he could cover his entire front in sick, not that it made Alex feel any better. Fortunately, there wasn’t much in his stomach to begin with; he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten, but it had been well before his walk around the resort town. Alex was forced to open his eyes and grouchily accept that he wasn’t going back to sleep no matter how antagonistic to the medical personnel he was willing to be; his body clearly had other ideas. He tried to raise a weak hand to wipe his mouth, but couldn’t quite manage. Everything was still fuzzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things were wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that certainly answers my next question: do you feel any nausea?” the doctor said, grabbing a tissue to clean Alex’s face and turning to a nurse. The man was already reaching into a cabinet nearby and pulling out a replacement blanket and cleaning supplies. He refocused on Alex. “We can give you something to help with that. Do you know where you are and what has happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sucked in a breath, willing the nausea to recede. “Got shot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. You were shot in the hip and nearly bled out, but your surgery went very well. How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I got shot and had surgery.” He tried to focus on the signs and laminated notices tacked to the walls beside the computer desk, on the scribbles written on the whiteboard stationed between that and the door. He half thought something was wrong with his vision before he realized it was Cyrillic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. Not Colorado. Russia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But how? How had they come to Russia? What happened to the CIA? Despite the hazy quality clinging to Alex’s thoughts, he couldn’t suppress his brain’s natural inclination to immediately begin slamming itself up against the nearest puzzle. Yassen could probably explain it to him, but he was standing between the door and the bed and hadn’t moved any closer. Probably one of his many paranoid tics, unless he was just mad that Alex had gotten them caught and didn’t want to be near him so he wouldn’t lose his temper. Alex wanted to apologize, to ask him to explain things, please, but he couldn’t with so many strangers in the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shifted, trying to look down at his hip to examine the extent of the damage. He already felt helpless, so what other good news could he expect? Something twinged in his chest and he winced before he could get a proper look, dropping his head back onto his pillow. “Did I break my breastbone too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor’s brows furrowed. “You have bruising there, but we did not x-ray the area as it was not relevant to your surgery. Not yet. Do you have pain there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got shot there too.” Alex flicked a glance between Yassen and the odd squiggles on the whiteboard. “We really in Russia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shifted on his feet and nodded. For the first time, Alex realized there was a man standing directly beside him. Some dark haired fellow with a mobile phone in his hands, dressed almost identically to the guards at the door. Government. He nodded to Alex as soon as he realized he was the object of his immediate attention, but didn’t introduce himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What happened while Alex was out?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Sokolov stepped to the side as the nurse brought a fresh hospital gown and began peeling away the vomit-covered one. “Well, it seems that you are alert and forming memories. Now that we have you stable, we will run more tests to assess and treat your secondary injuries. Where do you feel pain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared blearily at what bits of his chest he could see. It wasn’t good: his skin was a patchwork of mottling bruises and shallow cuts. Smithers’ shirt had stopped Yassen’s bullet to his heart from penetrating, but it hadn’t stopped the rest of the force hitting him and spreading across his frame. That and the beating he’d gotten from the Scorpia guards ensured that the dark welts spread across his chest and up his clavicle were more than just a trick of the light. Alex hissed as the male nurse placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to tip him forwards, drawing the new gown over his head and down his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. He’d forgotten he’d been shot in the back too. He owed Smithers one hell of a thank you note. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of clothes, Alex belatedly realized he’d just been naked in front of a room full of strangers. As though reading his mind, the nurse got him settled on the bed and pulled a new blanket over him, nodding shortly when Alex thanked him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarity was still half out of reach and Alex didn’t like it one bit. He was an all or nothing sort these days, and if he couldn’t have one, he wanted the other. With a quick glance at Yassen, he decided it’d be pressing his luck to ask for an edible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Sokolov frowned down at whatever had been written on the clipboard attached to the end of Alex’s bed. “On a scale of one to ten, one being almost no pain and ten being the worst you’ve ever felt, how would you describe it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno.” Alex blinked. The clipboard was on the surface of a small desk now and the doctor was speaking in rapid fire Russian to his nurse. Both of them were bent over the clipboard, with the occasional glance at the whiteboard across from his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen met his furrowed gaze and held up six fingers in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another absence seizure then. Damn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned. He’d rather just go back to sleep and not deal with anything anymore, but that probably wasn't going to happen. The doctor didn’t want him to and he had that mean little flashlight. Crankily, Alex just wished everyone would go away for a moment. Except for Yassen. He had questions to ask him because nothing really made sense and he just had this feeling that things had gone wrong somehow and that it was maybe-probably-almost certainly his fault and if it was he was sorry--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grindstones sprung to life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking hell,” Alex moaned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why now? Of all the times. He looked down the length of his bed, towards the door. The crusher’s vibrating rumble rippled through him, drawing ever closer as though Alex were pulled into its orbit. Gooseflesh prickled across his skin, every physical proximity alert his body had firing all at once: danger, danger, danger. Alex struggled to get his feet to cooperate as he tried to draw them away, sending sharp lances of pain across his body. Scrambling backwards was his first instinct and Alex saw no need to question it. His hip immediately became a huge flare of pain. He gasped but grit his teeth and pushed through, half rising onto his arms. If the grindstone caught him it would be far worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one?” Yassen asked him, striding closer to the bed at the same time the doctor and nurse both started trying to force Alex to lay back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay still</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Your stitches--” the doctor admonished, his voice an odd combination of anger and surprise. He stepped back and hit a call button beside the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crusher,” Alex ground out, still trying to shift out of their holds. The crusher advanced just over their shoulders. His legs were about to macerated into a fine paste. A few torn stitches were the least of his problems. “Don’t touch me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The male nurse flinched when Alex hissed through his teeth as he tried to gently press him back down. “Please lie back--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There wasn’t time to explain. Alex’s body didn’t want to cooperate either, though; his coordination was terrible and he could barely get his limbs to respond. Terror gave him extra strength, however, and he slammed his elbow into the nurse’s jaw. “Let go!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen stepped forward and grabbed one of Alex’s flailing ankles, clamping it back down against the mattress and ignoring the irate, panicked glare that earned him for his trouble. As much as he was usually happy to accomodate Alex’s only daily guaranteed form voluntary cardio, Yassen didn’t just sell his soul three different ways so Alex could rip open his stitches post-surgery. It would be just like the brat to find some way to die despite Yassen’s monumental effort-- and surrounded by health care professionals, no less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should be beyond questioning it really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s hallucinating,” Yassen told the doctor matter-of-factly, switching back to his native tongue. The doctor’s English was decent, but was clearly infrequently used. They had no room for misunderstandings. “There's no way to shorten them. He can’t help it either: they simply have to be outlasted. Give him more painkillers and he’ll settle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor shot him a tight look from where he was doing his best to secure Alex's shoulders without aggravating his injuries. Sharp beeps sounded as Alex’s thrashing managed to yank loose or free the various sensors and monitors attached to him. “Is that how you normally address these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow Yassen found he still had it in him-- after the most ludicrous, draining, stressful day he could recall in the last decade no less-- to be annoyed at the admittedly mild amount of disapproval in the man’s voice. He set his jaw. “To an extent. Normally, he runs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse broke in, arms slung across Alex’s chest. Alex’s blow to his jaw hadn’t seemed particularly strong and the man had probably gotten worse in basic training anyway, though he winced as Alex raked his fingernails across his skin.  “He’s bleeding through bandages. His stitches will need to be redone.” He adjusted his hold and looked to his superior. “I thought he’d been given a muscle relaxant for surgery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nearly snorted. “That won’t stop him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll need to sedate him,” the doctor said, using his elbow to knock away Alex’s hands as the boy tried to shove him off. Some of the relaxants had to still be in his system or else they’d be facing a lot more improvised karate; just because Alex was weak didn’t mean he wasn’t clever or vicious, though. “He must not keep moving like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will happen again. He hallucinates often. Every day, though he isn’t always this upset,” Yassen supplied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse glanced at his cart. “I’m not stocked for that. Perhaps we can get psychiatric services to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex swore and glared at Yassen. “Make them stop! It’s going to get me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re hurting yourself worse that the crusher can,” Yassen tried reminding him, nearly getting kicked in the face for his trouble. He hadn’t bothered securing Alex’s other foot because it was attached to a hip with a recent gunshot wound. Slamming it down to the mattress and trying to ignore Alex’s cry of pain, he turned back to the doctor and snapped, “Psychiatric services won’t help this. He’ll still fight even if you give him lorazepam and haloperidol--” (Yassen hoped that those medicine names were the same internationally. They were certainly understood by his non-Russian-speaking audience. Alex’s glare could have stripped the nice green paint from the walls, though there was no time to explain that he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>advising their application</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) “He’s done it before. Either get him high or knock him out. With his anesthesia wearing off, I assume it is likely safer to just give him more opiates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened and two medical assistants dressed in tan scrubs came in, hurrying past the guards to help secure Alex to the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin trailed behind them, arms crossed as he considered the scene with a small frown. Yassen absolutely despised having him to his exposed back, but Alex had taken one look at the new recruits and doubled his efforts. With a furious snarl, Alex twisted his head as one of the new assistants reached for his face, likely to correct the breathing tube that had half pulled free from his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen recognized that look. With only the split second of warning Yassen had, he released Alex’s legs and leaned forward, slamming his palm onto Alex’s forehead. Alex’s teeth clicked together, almost lost in the sounds of shuffling and muttered swearwords. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes he bites,” Yassen said by way of explanation, meeting the shocked assistant’s eyes. He continued holding Alex’s head against his pillow. Not that he particularly cared if the man lost a finger; he just didn’t want to deal with whatever guilt the boy would no doubt summon about it later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin nodded to the doctor with a half shrug. “It sounds like Gregorovich speaks from experience. Do what you think is best, but bear in mind that the SVR is more concerned with keeping him alive than with respecting medical ethics. High is fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grimace, the doctor surrendered his post at Alex’s shoulders and reached for one of the clear bags hooked to Alex’s IVs. Grabbing a needle from the cart, he injected a small shot of blue liquid into a port and fiddled with the bag’s regulator. “I do not like this and it’s not an issue of medical ethics. The effects of his addiction on his treatment will only get more unpredictable if we continue to increase his morphine. He already came out of his surgical anesthesia faster than expected, not that the CIA surgeons gave us a clear understanding of how much they gave him in the first place. Now we’ll need to taper him off of this and onto something else before we can discharge him so he won’t begin to detox from the disparity.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a toy running out of battery power, Alex’s thrashing slowed. It had been mere seconds since the blue liquid had disappeared into the line. Yassen took a moment to fully appreciate the speed of the injectable drugs-- he’d expected it to be fast, but had also been resigned to restaining the furious brat for at least a few minutes for the painkillers to kick in. The sedative shots in the prison had taken longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ironically, he supposed, the real difference was ethics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes half shut, Alex took in a slow, deep breath before halting his struggles altogether. His head flopped against his pillow as he mumbled something incoherent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Delay the muscle relaxers,” the doctor ordered as the assistants stepped away from the bed. There was no need for further restraint: Alex was awake, but completely unresisting. “We’ll have to time it properly. I don’t want any adverse reactions with the morphine and I don’t dare give him any more of that as it is.” He ripped open a small drawer on the cart and pulled out a packaged needle and thread before jerking his head at the nurse. “Let’s take a look at those stitches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen straightened, realizing with a jolt that he’d already fumbled his cigarettes out of his pocket. When had he done that? Looked down at them. Couldn’t quite bring himself to put them away again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes drifted to the door. Surely there was somewhere in the hospital he could smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, it was a hospital. With Yassen’s luck, he’d have to hike to a smoke shack on the other side of the base. He shoved the pack back into his jeans pocket and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was fine. It would be fine. He could push through it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When was the last time he’d slept? It had been four and a half hours since Alex officially came out of surgery, as declared by the Russian doctors that had examined him. The flight had been another sixteen. It had been evening when Steiner had shown up at the cabin….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two days. That explained the urge to lie down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex mumbled again. Something about his tone made Yassen pause. He didn’t look angry necessarily, though Yassen braced himself in case he had to leap to restrain him at a second’s notice. Rather… he sounded uneasy. Scared. The boy mumbled something again, staring at the medical desk in consternation. Perhaps the crusher was still concerning him. Perhaps he didn’t wish to observe the doctor’s careful needlework on the flesh of his hip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a jolt, Yassen realized the boy’s eyes were beginning to shine with the threat of frustrated, bitter tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why? What now? He wasn’t tied up. He wasn’t in pain. Yassen had even gotten him</span>
  <em>
    <span> opiates</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smothering the urge to turn heel and bolt before Alex could openly begin to weep, it occured to Yassen that Alex also hadn’t looked at him since the morphine had kicked in. While the idea that he’d have to deal with tears directly was nearly enough to make him cringe openly, he also felt a small bolt of guilt work its way through him. Surely Alex had to have some awareness of the necessity of restraining him. Surely he wasn’t just frightened and sulking and feeling betrayed over something Yassen had done in his best interest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hit him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was staring at the whiteboard again. That’s right. He’d forgotten Alex’s earlier consternation at not being able to understand the strange writing. Now that he thought about it, everything must be disorienting and frightening to Alex even if the morphine made it easier to accept. Hard to understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Indecipherable letters. Sounds he didn’t recognize. Faces he couldn’t trust. An entire situation had evolved since he’d been shot that he didn’t have a clue about. He hadn’t even had a chance to fully rouse from anesthesia before being confronted with this mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was the only familiar element in a sea of potential threats and not only had he had to restrain him directly (which never went over well, even in ideal circumstances), he couldn’t even explain things to the boy. It would be pointless until Alex was sober again, anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cigarettes found their way into his hand again, though this time he didn’t put them away. Even touching the package was becoming a nervous tic, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit it had helped slightly to know that they were there. God knew he’d never actually get a chance to smoke one of the damn things. He cast about in his own head, feeling something like dread take up residence in his chest. Alex might not be of a mind to keep fighting, but just because he wasn’t lashing out didn’t mean he wasn’t about to have some sort of tantrum as soon as the chemicals in his body started to wear off. More torn stitches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced between the mumbling boy and the door. Tried to convince himself that fifteen minutes wasn’t long enough for Alex to work himself up again. Sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be best to warn the doctor of the impending trouble now, especially if it became necessary to request psychiatric restraints. That would set Alex off for certain. Perhaps there was no avoiding it and he would simply have to make it up to him later. He wasn’t entirely sure how to console the boy in this situation anyway, even without having to consider how it would be observed and interpreted by their watchers. They weren’t particularly great at talking things out and Alex wouldn’t even consider doing so in front of strangers, assuming he was sober enough to hold a conversation in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What moves did he have left? Yassen couldn’t lean on their routines like he used to in order to reassure Alex that everything was under control. He could hardly goad the boy out of bed to do his stretches. Could hardly offer him extra Xanax or edibles to distract him from his misery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, Alex had his own routines to mitigate his unhappiness, didn’t he? He just couldn’t do them himself right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen studied the boy. They were stupid little habits, but he’d seen the boy repeat them enough for them to come to mind now. Or perhaps he just associated them with Alex getting unusually high. Or profoundly upset. Yassen flicked a glance at the mumbling boy in the bed. Perhaps those were the same thing more often than not lately. He didn’t have to understand the how or the why of his little rituals. Not if they worked now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin could think whatever he wanted if Yassen could buy himself. One. Damn. Smoke. Break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen swiveled to face the medical assistants. “Where’s the remote?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To the television.” At Vankin’s raised eyebrow, Yassen clarified, “He’s still upset. He’ll have a panic attack soon unless he’s distracted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The male nurse glanced up from where he was mopping up Alex’s stitches with sterile alcohol. His cheek was beginning to darken from Alex’s strike, but the man didn’t seem to pay it any mind. “Check the cabinet,” he said, jerking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen yanked open said cabinet and snatched the remote, flicking through channels with reckless speed. Alex was already high, so that could be crossed off his list. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin sidled up to him, expression free of anything except mild curiosity. “What are you looking for?” the man asked, watching the screen populate with a list of channels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer was busy scolding himself for not paying more attention to the names of Alex’s shows. He knew his favorites, irritably and involuntarily, as a consequence of having to share so many motel rooms, but none of the names or descriptions on the screen seemed to line up with what Yassen could recall. Not that he expected a Russian military hospital to have more than one or two such offerings anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin was still waiting for an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t look away from the screen. “Trash television.” Now that he thought about it, that didn’t quite translate correctly into Russian. “Reality tv?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin frowned. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounded so stupid to Yassen’s ears, but he was exhausted and had no desire to explain neither the genre nor Alex’s terrible taste within it. His checklist of four things already felt like more of a challenge than it had any right being. “Like Jersey Shore?” he grumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The male nurse spoke again. “Our cable package doesn’t have that one. Try channel 078. He might like Judge Judy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex did indeed fix his attention on the screen as it changed, eyebrows drawing sharply into a little V as the camera panned over the courtroom before focusing abruptly on an older woman with a grandmotherly perm and stern expression. Yassen supposed the Russian voiceover might be distracting alongside the English subtitles he activated, but so far as he could discern, Alex’s attention was only so focused when he was high anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two out of four. Check.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can he eat yet?” Yassen asked the doctor, dropping the remote on the bed and stepping towards the surgical cart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tossing his bloody gloves in the trash, Sokolov hardly glanced up from the chart he scribbled a note on. The man was only just beginning to look as exhausted as Yassen felt. “His nausea should be passing and he’s already been cleared of prostrate or urethral damage. If he can keep it down, he can have whatever he likes. I’ve given up on the idea of getting imaging done in the next few hours. We’ll try again in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps that is wise,” Vankin said, watching Yassen grab the remaining two blankets from the bottom compartment of the nurse’s cart. He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blankets were thin cotton, rather than the thick duvets Alex seemed to prefer from their time in various motel rooms. They would have to do. Yassen dropped them on the startled teen’s head, leaving Alex to sluggishly readjust them around his top half in that odd blanket cocoon he seemed so fond of. Yassen returned to the cabinet, almost inappropriately relieved when he found another set of folded blankets on the bottom shelf. Three out of four. Check. He tossed them onto Alex’s legs and snapped, “It just works. I don’t know why. He calms down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin waved a hand. “If you say so. Does he need anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The final thing on his list. Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing he didn’t actually know the Russian word he needed and didn’t care to explain his way around it. English it was, then. “A milkshake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turned his head. “Strawberry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin’s lips twitched. “Should we sing him a lullaby too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look Yassen gave the SVR spook could have scalded ice as he dug around in his pocket and pulled his cigarettes free. Where was his lighter? In truth, he was fantasizing about snapping the man’s neck. It would be so satisfying, even if the man had the training to fight back. Okay, maybe especially because he’d put up a fight. Maybe he’d try it if the man said one more damned thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unphased, Vankin pulled out his own lighter from the depths of his breast pocket, offering it to him. “I jest. It can be arranged.” He nodded to a guard, who, with only a small disbelieving huff, quickly relayed the order into the wall phone, having to repeat himself twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It probably wasn’t a common request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen accepted the light and stalked over to the window. It was a sliding thing, with a latch that allowed for a few inches of air; the building was clearly at least several decades old, which did little to reassure him of it’s structural security. It would have to be good enough. He lit up. The first pull of smoke into his lungs brought him so much relief he almost sagged against the window frame. Maybe if it were just Alex he would have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Sokolov took one look at him and dropped his pen on the desktop with a sharp crack. “No. Absolutely not. This is a hospital, not a circus. Put that out or go to the smoking area outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snap of his neck would be immensely satisfying too. A military man the doctor might be, but Yassen was willing to bet it had been some time since the man had been out in the field, especially if he was willing to semi-disregard the wishes of SVR assets. Maybe he’d put up a fight. That could be satisfying too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without allowing himself to get too lost in the fantasy, Yassen exhaled carefully out the window, before he gestured at the door and snapped, “Fine. You deal with him then. Mind your fingers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The threat was only half empty, but this time, when Yassen took a drag, nobody argued.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Hope everyone is staying safe. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Three days later, Alex let out a sharp grunt and settled back against the bed, fighting the impulse to rub his hip. It didn’t hurt exactly, not with the painkillers he was on, but there was definitely a sharp pressure when he’d pushed back against the male nurse’s palm with his foot; similar to an itch but a lot more...electric, perhaps. He tended to get scolded every time he so much as thought about interacting with his stitches, but he supposed he didn’t blame them after the first day: he’d been lucky not to be sent back into surgery. “Okay, that one hurt more, but just in that one spot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrey (as it turned out, the male nurse Alex punched had a name) nodded and released his foot, glancing over at Yassen briefly, as he returned the ice bag to Alex’s hip. “I will take this as good sign. Early movement looks good: all muscles respond correct, even if damaged or cause pain. I will speak with Dr. Sokolov, but if your labs are negative, we will likely discharge you to recovery facility tonight or tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded and flicked his cigarette against the metal lip of the window pane. A spare chair had been dragged over to create a sort of perch for him, overlooking what Alex estimated to be the most boring brick wall he’d ever seen in his illustrious hospitalization career. Where Yassen slept was a mystery that Alex hadn’t yet bothered trying to solve; without fail, the assassin was sitting in his spot  when Alex awoke. Beside the contract killer, a portable air filter hummed steadily, diligently scrubbing the air of as many cancer causing particles as possible. One of the hospital’s many compromises for them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Also on that list was Alex’s restraint-free status. That had been carefully negotiated between Alex, Yassen, and his doctors as soon as Alex was lucid enough to understand the conversation. If Alex agreed to alert the staff of any hallucinations and give them a chance to dose him before he began moving, he wouldn’t have to be immobilized. There had been caveats, of course: Dr. Sokolov wanted him off of the morphine and onto hydrocodone, a condition which Alex had cleverly utilized in order to work in a deal for unlimited strawberry milkshakes. Not that they would have said no had he requested those. Even when the medical staff spoke to him in varying proficiencies of English, Alex noticed there was a lot of effort being made to ensure that he was comfortable and happy, mixed with a dozen or so glances in Yassen’s direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole situation was weird. Alex still wasn't sure he fully understood it, though that was mostly due to Yassen’s clear reluctance to speak openly. No doubt they were actively being surveilled. Even when they were both alone in the room (save for the ever-present guards), the man never completely relaxed even if he didn’t seem particularly on edge either. Alex took that to mean that while Yassen didn’t trust their surroundings, he didn’t think they were in any real danger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Yassen would correct him if he’d assumed wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His answers remained vague regardless of the company in the room. All he’d told him was that he’d made a secret deal with the Russian SVR to help them with an unrelated matter in exchange for new identities and Alex’s medical care. Alex didn’t know what it was they wanted from Yassen (he’d guessed Scorpia right away and been given a flat no), but whatever it was had to be important if they were willing to overlook... well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> about both of them. Frankly, he was astounded that any country was willing to help them much less hide them from MI6, though perhaps it shouldn’t have at this point in his ex-spy career. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s questions about the CIA’s involvement were waved away with an answer about global politics. As much as he wanted to ask more questions, he knew that it would have to do for now, or at least until he and Yassen had a chance to speak freely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a bit like being in prison again: say just enough to get your point across, but not so much that whoever listening understood the full situation. It was exhausting, but familiar. Alex didn’t have to like it to understand it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing Yassen had said to him that would have been at all new information to their listeners was his own caveat in the no-restraints deal. After the doctors had left and they’d been left more or less to themselves, he’d given Alex a steady look and made him promise to never, ever lie about his medical condition to get more drugs. That he had worked it out with Vankin that Alex wouldn’t be cut off or left to detox and could even have extra to relax, but that Alex must promise Yassen personally to never misrepresent his pain or injuries to get high. It wasn’t a hard promise to make, even if Alex was a little bitter about having to make it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he blamed Yassen exactly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hard to find the time to worry about it too much anyway. When Alex wasn’t being badgered through early movement exercises or coaxed down the hallway with the aid of a walker, he was being dragged throughout the hospital in a wheelchair for an endless series of tests. Even though he knew it </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be grand to suddenly have access to all the health care he needed, it certainly didn’t feel that way: he was utterly sick of it. If he didn’t have to piss in a cup, hold perfectly still for imaging, or squeeze someone’s fingers when he felt a pressure ever again, it would be too soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that is all for now, but I will be back in one hour for more time with walker,” Andrey said, making a few updates to Alex’s chart on the computer, before quickly noting the readouts of the various machines. With a final tap, he tucked his notepad under his arm and grabbed the remote. “Do you want sound again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, please.” Alex caught Yassen’s glance and sighed. “Da, pozhaluysta,” he tried again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as Alex enjoyed having the whole TV to himself without having to fight to not watch the news constantly, it couldn’t have come at a more irrelevant time. There wasn’t a whole lot to watch on TV anyway, especially since the hospital didn’t seem to get any of the channels Alex had gotten used to watching during their meandering trip across the states. The military hospital didn’t have MTV or Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network or even ESPN (though to be fair, civilians were rarely treated here). It wasn’t very fun to watch what was on anyway, especially since none of it was in English; while he wasn’t sure it was improving his terrible Russian, at least Alex’s reading speed was getting faster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few failed attempts to find anything interesting, Alex settled on </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Wild Swans</span>
  </em>
  <span> to avoid Yassen’s almost guaranteed attempts to practice Russian with him. For some reason, there were plenty of old soviet cartoons on, despite their slow pacing, borderline dreary topics, and largely static imagery. Dull as they were, Alex had resigned himself to watching them if only for the sake of learning the language; the voice actors spoke slowly and clearly while the vocabulary was a lot more simple than the news (not that Yassen didn’t occasionally hijack the television for that in the evenings anyway). Alex had sat through at least a dozen at this point, whether it was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tin Soldier</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vacation in Prostokvashino</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>A Kitten Named Woof</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It all had begun to blend together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cartoons seemed to have a certain draw beyond that of most television: all the nurses paused to watch a few minutes between tests and draws while the guards seemed to edge from their posts just enough to see the screen when they were on. Even Yassen wound up watching them after about five minutes, though he seemed to be making an active effort not to and had positioned his smoking chair so as to have his back to the screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t get it. What made them so interesting? They certainly weren’t exciting. Some sort of humor that was going over his head? Nostalgia?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grimaced and changed the channel. Maybe he’d have better luck with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three Little Pigs</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin chose that moment to sweep into the room, offering Alex a half nod, before immediately launching into a string of Russian aimed at the assassin that Alex couldn’t begin to decipher. Digging into his suit’s pocket, he produced a small object and handed it over without preamble. Yassen didn’t so much as blink as he tucked the little car key into his own pocket. It wouldn’t have stuck out to Alex at all, if he hadn’t noticed Yassen’s eyes tighten ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Going for a drive?” Alex asked him, as Vankin left to take a phone call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Yassen put out his light, catching Alex’s look. “I’ll tell you about it another time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hummed a little and went back to trying to puzzle out the cartoons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Sokolov glanced at the television with mild interest as he entered before coming to stand beside Alex’s bed. “Still feeling better, Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged, feeling his back and front twinge with the motion. He certainly felt better than he had the first day. He ached from time to time, but he wasn’t vomiting and he didn’t feel as weak. Not that he intended to be honest about any of his remaining discomfort: he would say whatever it took to get out of this damn hospital and it’s stressful boredom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, good. I’ve reviewed all of your test results and so far, everything looks good. Blood tests look about as normal as we expected, no signs of infection, no signs of any adverse reactions to your medications. Electrolyte levels are stable too.” The doctor consulted his clipboard. “I see a note here about your appetite improving. Any more nausea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hummed. “It comes and goes, but I haven’t vomited.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not uncommon. I don’t think it’s concerning. Your stomach lining was in better condition when I checked yesterday. No sign of bleeding. Have you experienced any acid reflux or anything like that? No? Well, perhaps it is a little early to say for sure, but I think your stomach problems have almost resolved.” Dr. Sokolov sighed and flipped to the next page. Alex didn’t blame him: his clipboard seemed to have a lot of pages. “On to the next. Any hallucinations or panic attacks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex picked at the blanket draped across his lap. “Only a few.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sokolov paused. Even Yassen looked over. “Did you let the staff know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head without looking up. “Didn’t need to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex.” Yassen’s voice was firm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was just Julius,” he muttered, glancing up at the man. He didn’t seem angry, but Alex never really knew anymore since Yassen seemed to be putting in extra effort to be unreadable again. Like in prison. He certainly couldn’t ask. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted more painkillers, per se, it was just that he didn’t want to make a fuss when Yassen was already so busy and stressed with the SVR deal. Or have to explain it in front of the guards. “He didn’t even speak. It wasn’t a big deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pulled out a fresh cigarette and nodded to the doctor. “It’s fine. What else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor pressed his lips together and went on to the next page. “Any new pain associated with your shoulder and chest fractures?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head. Maybe it was the drugs, but they only ever really hurt when he put direct strain on them. According to the x-ray technician he’d met with a few days ago, he’d gotten off quite easy with only hairline breaks, despite taking bullets at such a close range. The bruising should be the most painful part of those, though she’d informed him he’d be allowed no sports for a few weeks until the bones could finish repairing themselves. Alex had gestured to his hip with a peevish expression and gotten a chuckle with that one, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sokolov scribbled something. “Good. Good. Your last set of hip x-rays were promising. Since the surgeons didn’t install any hardware in the bone itself, we wanted to be a little cautious with ensuring it had begun healing before we discharged you. Everything appears fine, so tomorrow morning I will recommend you be released to a temporary care facility here on base for a week or--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin popped his head in the door, holding up a hand to silence the doctor. His phone was still pressed against his ear. He seemed to listen intently, then said something into it before he turned to the doctor and asked a short question. Sokolov’s brows furrowed and he opened his mouth, but Vankin waved him silent again and motioned for him and Yassen to join him outside as he hung up the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex felt a small bolt of anxiety travel through him. What couldn’t they talk about in front of him? He didn’t speak Russian, unless they thought he was lying about it…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen caught his eye before he left. “It’s fine,” he told him, before disappearing into the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was starting to doubt that.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! I'm super bummed that I didn't realize that yesterday was Mother's Day. I could have posted early in celebration of Yassen's Mum-skills. What a shame.</p><p>As always, I love hearing everyone's thoughts. I think we all know at this point that I am utterly horrible at responding to comments in a remotely timely manner, but I promise I read all of them as they come in. :D You guys are the best!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen followed the doctor and his “manager” into the hallway, past the next door of the room beside them where Yassen’s own sleeping area had been arranged, and into the next. It was an auxiliary office and storage overflow room, mostly for ensuring the nurses on the floor had a chance to get oriented and restocked between patients. Most of the floor was empty, however, and the dimmed lights and empty nursing stations giving the whole area an oddly abandoned feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin turned to the doctor first. “Plans may need to change. Is the boy stable enough to be discharged into home care?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sokolov hesitated. “Technically, yes, though I’d recommend he go to the facility at least until he’s able to use a cane and his stitches come out. With his health so fragile even before the bullet--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how long will it take to remove the stitches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another week, minimum.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin shook his head. “That’s too long. Would home care and a visiting physical therapist suffice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A helpless shrug from the military doctor. The lines around his eyes seemed to have grown a little deeper. “I suppose, but I would not consider it ideal. His opioid dependency--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will be addressed later.” Vankin gestured to the hallway in a clear order. “Go alert your staff. If any testing still needs to happen, do it now. He will be discharged tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen spoke as the doctor’s footsteps faded away. “Exactly why are we diverting from the previous plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a steady look. “There’s been a small issue, but it has yet to become a full problem. We simply wish to ensure that we adjust far enough in advance to avoid further complications.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Complications.” Yassen didn't so much as blink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MI6 has gotten wind of the flight, but we do not believe that they know much more than a few scant facts. They know that the CIA was involved, that the flight landed in Russia, and that Alex and you were both aboard. We’re confident we know how they got the information, but we’ve yet to confirm the leak.” Vankin glanced down at his phone. “At any rate, our main office received a handful of communications from them regarding the issue of Alex’s location. He is simply listed as a missing British child for now, but we imagine that they might wish to escalate in the future. We simply don’t want to connect you two any longer to the destination of said flight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fantastic. Someone had screwed up, likely on the Americans’ side. As much as he itched to track down the leak and plug it, he knew it was futile. The damage was already done. Looking into it himself would only distract him at best and potentially expose them at worst. “How does this differ from the plan before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The original plan was to have Alex stay here for an additional week or two to ensure he could blend in as a civilian and finish recovering at a cautious pace. Instead, we shall have to accelerate our time tables for getting you off base, this time on a civilian flight to avoid any potential notice. This is no big risk as your covers have already been sorted and your living situation determined.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his eyes narrow. “We agreed that I would pick the location.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We agreed it would align with your needs,” Vankin corrected. “And those have been carefully considered and addressed in relation to ours. I assure you, you and the boy will not be living in a dump nor will you be on the doorstep of any rival intelligence agencies. Security is our utmost concern. We have already finished processing your cover identities.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen accepted the identification cards and passports he was handed, as well as a small cellphone. Their ages had been altered: Yassen was listed two years older than he actually was and Alex a year younger. It was just as well-- while he might be cross about it, Alex would likely have to repeat a year of schooling anyway. “Lebedev,” he said, reading their matching surnames aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin nodded. “According to your new neighbors, you are a recent widower who has decided to return to Russia with your Canadian son to help connect him to his family roots. According to internal government records, you are actually one of dozens of discovered sleeper agents, repatriated as part of an exchange agreement. For your great service to your country, obviously you will need to be fully provided for and occasionally communicated with. The paperwork will certainly check out if anyone bothers to look into why your upkeep and security costs are cited in our records.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered this. “Could the Canadian embassy try to claim him on behalf of MI6?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin shook his head. “Even if they could slap him on their records to try and use our cover story against us to lodge a semi-legitimate international claim, it wouldn’t hold up in court for more than a week. It is not uncommon for children of discovered agents to be disowned with their parents; beyond the trauma of splitting families, when they are born under a false name to spy parents, it technically invalidates their citizenship regardless of what continent they happened to be expelled from a uterus on. Precedent works in our favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be unwise to accept all the assurances of their keeprs blindly. The SVR had a vested interest in keeping Yassen calm, though lying to him would quickly work against their interests were they caught. Vankin might still be downplaying the risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen crossed his arms. “Are they likely to try regardless?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man shook his head. “Doubtful. Even if they go public, we have nothing to lose by it and they do. It is on that matter that I’m hoping you can help us: do you have any direct evidence of his spy history?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would we need it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said, we’d like to be prepared. If MI6 wants to make noise about a missing teenager, we are happy to ignore them. In the unlikely event that they wish to accuse us of sheltering him illegally, we might wish to make some noise of our own about his spy past. Obviously, our country would be remiss to return an exploited orphan to his abusers. It would not be ethical. One might say inhumane. Courts would have to get involved and those courts do not move quickly. He could be an adult before a verdict can be reached one way or another.” Vankin shook his head. “They will likely quiet themselves before an actual spectacle can be made. We simply wish to have plenty of evidence to ensure it happens quickly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything the man said made sense. Yassen was no stranger to contingency plans over the course of his career. It was just aggravating to have to entertain the idea that MI6 might actually become problematic while Yassen was working with such a limited chessboard. He would be forced to rely on his SVR allies, at least so long as Alex was in such a vulnerable state. So long as their needs aligned, however, Yassen was confident the agency would not risk them. Bolstering their files on Alex wouldn’t really change anything for them anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen set his jaw. “Does the SVR not have records of his recovery in Murmansk following Sarov?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin shrugged. “We do, but we want more. There was little evidence on our end that he was an agent of MI6, rather than a kidnapped child with survival instincts and initiative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then speak with the CIA. They had several files on him, including evidence that he operated within their borders on behalf of MI6. So do the Australians.” Yassen crossed his arms as Vankin gave a disinterested shrug. “I hardly carry such files on me, not that I imagine there are many reliable ones in the first place. What Alex has told me of his time with MI6 suggests that what paper trail he has managed to leave will be both scant and questionable.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unfortunate truth. Despite how hideously un-secret Alex’s existence was, there was likely little unbiased evidence floating around about what he actually had participated in. What was available would likely be buried and not just by MI6. The CIA had already admitted to scrubbing any connection to Alex in their records; while they might secretly back a horse in the Russian SVR at MI6’s expense, they likely wouldn’t engage in an overt act of aggression towards Mrs. Jones by offering what they had even if it no longer implicated themselves. Not unless it was in their interests to start such a fight. They might choose to do so down the road, but probably not on any time table that would work for Yassen now. The Australians would be much the same, given their own hand in the mess of Alex’s past. Most who knew about the boy had reason to cover up exactly how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for the gadget man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will make some inquiries,” Yassen said at last. “Is that all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin took a short breath. “It might be better if we were able to interview Alex and get him on record stating that--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” At Vankin’s shuttered look, Yassen added, “It is not necessary to put him through such stress in addition to his injuries. If MI6 begins circling the waters before other evidence can be acquired, we shall speak more of it then. For now, I want him unbothered. His spy work is in the past and I don’t want to give him any reason to divert his energy away from the future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin considered him, obviously realizing that there was little to be gained by pressing. “Very well. It will only be a concern if they are able to locate him anyway. Moving him tonight should go a long way towards obfuscating whatever trail they manage to string together based on the flight. I’m sure he will be much cheered to leave the hospital in any event. Get him established in his new home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his lips thin. About that. “And where will that new home be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only in one of the most beautiful cities in the world--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex tensed as Yassen stalked into the room. Whatever the SVR representative had wanted to talk to him and his doctor about, it wasn’t good. Anxiety flickered in his stomach as he studied the tight lines of the contract killer’s face. Had something gone wrong with the deal? Had MI6 discovered where they were? Was the SVR planning to use Alex’s condition against them? Blackmail one or both of them into doing something off the record? Alex wasn’t in good enough health to do any missions himself and if they were going to force Yassen to go off and--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything alright?” the former teen spy asked as Yassen went immediately to his smoking corner and yanked out a cigarette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything is fine,” Yassen told him, to Alex’s utter lack of surprise. He must have seen something in Alex’s look, because he seemed to make an effort to compose himself and added, “We’re simply proceeding to our safe house tonight instead of to the treatment center as originally planned. You’ll finish your recovery with home visits while we get settled in our apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our apartment. Alex’s mind reeled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mere idea of having any permanent living space was bizarre to him now. They’d only been on the run for a month or two, but already it felt like the way things had always been. Alex found himself unwilling to trust this idea of settling anywhere for more than a week, even if Yassen had made it clear that it was his eventual goal for them. After all, it wasn’t like he really understood what was going on anyway-- they could just as easily be forced to go on the run if this deal with the Russians went sour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, he couldn’t relax yet. At any rate, the actual change of plans didn’t seem that worrying. While he’d been told they’d be sent to some sort of care facility, he rather got the impression it was because they didn’t know where to stick either of them yet and needed to stall in order to buy time to work it all out. Perhaps their new identities had come through early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He studied Yassen’s stiff jaw. The man almost seemed… surly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin walked in a split second later, holding a large yellow document envelope. Yassen’s eyes flicked to the man, but didn’t linger or particularly seem to take interest in his presence. Alex decided to take that at face value. The hitman wasn’t upset at the man who represented their government supporters. There was no sense that Yassen was reacting to danger. So what had gotten him so annoyed?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Alex said slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “So where’s our new apartment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen jammed a cigarette between his teeth. “Moscow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex did his best. He really did. A stray snicker erupted without his consent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pressed the back of his hand to his lips, but couldn’t quite smother the sound. “Oh,” he managed after a few seconds. “Of course it is.” Another snicker broke through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a warning look, but there was no real disapproval in it. He seemed resigned, if anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin glanced between them as he came up to the bedside table bside Alex, opening the envelope with his eyebrows raised. “I get the impression I’m missing the joke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A laugh actually ripped its way from his throat at that. Alex decided to let it go as he devolved into a gasping fit of giggles, even though each and every movement agitated his injuries ever so slightly. He couldn’t stop himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just. Too. Perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed, somewhat breaking the added layer of blankness he’d affected since they’d arrived by rolling his eyes. He moved a touch closer to Alex’s bed. “It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> funny, little Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, but it was</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Alex wanted to reply, if only he had the lung capacity. He had some fairly fuzzy memories of how high he’d been on the road, but he definitely remembered his almost-overdose and the conversations around it. Out of all the cities in Russia, Yassen had assured him there was only one they’d never go to. Over his dead body. The one he hated more than any other. A total shithole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex would never let him live this down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s destiny,” he gasped out, just to be a proper little shit about it. “Fate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned him a scowl. “Oh, shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin took this all in with mild bemusement. “Whatever objections you have to our nation’s beautiful capitol aside, here are your traveling documents. We’ll be leaving in a few hours, so I want you to memorize your details and ask any questions about your cover identity now.” He pulled out a folded set of papers from the depths of an envelope and set them on the table in front of him before redirecting his attention to his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still chortling, Alex flipped open his passport and scanned it. He dropped it like a burning ember. “Why do I have a girl's name?” he demanded, all mirth gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted, reaching out to pull on Alex’s overgrown hair. “Destiny, Sasha. It’s fate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turned his outrage on the man, swatting his hands away. “You did this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not,” Yassen said. Oh, yes. He was definitely amused. “Sasha’s just how Aleksandr is shortened in Russia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with Alex?” If Yassen was going to laugh at him, Alex was just going to have to hit him with logic. “It’s dead common everywhere. Every other mission I had, I went as Alex something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. You were caught and discovered almost every time,” Yassen pointed out. “You can’t have the same exact name, but this is close enough to ensure you remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glared at the next paper, half crumpling in his hand, which had a small summary of what his backstory was supposed to be. Noted the age drop with a twitch, but decided not to say anything. Barely. He had to pick his battles strategically. “But I’m supposed to be Canadian. Can’t we at least go for Alec?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a wry look. Not that he’d been expecting otherwise, but it seemed Alex was short an ally on this wrong-name situation. “He is right, you know. The more similar it is to your actual name, the more it will stand out to anyone even casually looking at a list of teenage boys recently arrived in Russia. Sasha Lebedev is hardly an uncommon name and, better yet, it is not associated with your history as we know it. It will blend in perfectly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grumbled, looking back down at his identity papers. It made some sense, he supposed. Perhaps he should be grateful it was anything like his name at all, given the need for secrecy. At least it wasn’t something completely unrelated or unpronounceable to him so--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lebedev means swan, by the way.” Yassen clarified, “Your name is Sasha Swan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be serious!” Alex exploded, dropping his papers and not bothering to conceal his dismay. “Really? Sasha Swan? You must be joking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave an exasperated scoff, “It’s not a girl’s name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I sound like a stripper!” Alex moaned, dropping his face into his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cutting your hair would help, though,” Yassen offered, a little too innocently. Yes, definitely still cross about Alex’s teasing earlier. “If you were looking to avoid confusion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Releasing his face, Alex gave him a flat look and pointedly yanked said hair up into a ponytail, no matter how much it twinged to accomplish the motion. “Not happening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Hope everyone is staying safe and keeping sane. As always, I adore your thoughts, comments, and whatever else you'd like to shriek into void. ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen scanned the other passengers as they boarded, feigning only casual interest over the lip of his crossword puzzle. He and Alex had been seated well in advance in the first class section of the plane, not that it mattered much since it was a red-eye flight anyway. As popular of a destination as Moscow might be, most people preferred not to travel at 2 AM to get there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Alex stared out the window, watching the neon-clad aircrew load luggage onto the conveyor belt. Yassen was tempted to take the opportunity to expand the boy’s Russian vocabulary, but he was already half asleep from his painkillers and would likely doze for most of their five hour flight. At Yassen’s insistence, Alex had been carefully prepped chemically for the flight: plenty of painkillers, but not exclusively opiates. Not only would he have to stay in a seated position for hours despite his injuries, he still had to avoid responding to his hallucinations without being identifiably high. It was a tough ask of the former child spy, but unavoidable: another private military flight would only be more noteworthy and even if there was no paper trail, there was no doubt MI6 had satellites watching for them. In any event, Yassen had been prepared with various emergency doses of sedatives should anything happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of the people shuffling sleepily past them with crammed carry ons and sleepy expressions stood out to him, apart from the two SVR agents he expected to see. No acknowledgements were made as they passed, dressed in plain clothes and as irritable seeming as the other passengers. The tell-tale hints that they were armed would have made them obvious to the assassin, even if Vankin hadn’t made a point of introducing them shortly before they’d arrived at the airport. The man had acted as though the purpose of said introduction was to personally reassure Alex of his in-flight safety in the unlikely event that they be compromised, but Yassen was confident it had the dual purpose of ensuring that the former Scorpia hitman didn’t eliminate any unidentified agents he spotted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scribbled another answer on his crossword. A fair concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flight attendant approached them as the final passengers trickled onboard. Her eyes fixed on Alex after a short glance at the wheelchair stowed in the small compartment in front of them. “Do you need anything else before we take off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s fine,” Yassen told her, as Alex gave her a polite and obviously uncomprehending smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the woman moved on to the rest of the cabin, Alex grimaced and adjusted his safety belt over his hip. “Can I ask real questions yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen doubted the commercial plane was bugged or that the agents could hear them from their positions about a half dozen rows behind them. Even so, he was loath to have any conversations where they could be overheard. On the other hand, their new apartment would no doubt have multiple forms of surveillance for Yassen to deal with. There was only a mild chance any of the other passengers spoke fluent English. Alex was already using a low voice, so he obviously understood the need for discretion. This might be the only chance Alex had for a while. “Go ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened after I got shot?” he asked immediately. Yassen wasn’t entirely surprised; he’d only offered the boy an overview as soon as he’d sobered up, with obvious pieces of information missing. “How were we found?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen filled in a few letters on his paper as the engines wound up. “I used the panic button your gadget man gave you. Smithers traced our location and called the landline to tell me that the Russians would strike a deal with me and that the CIA would facilitate. It took them less than an hour to get there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip. “Is Smithers in trouble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I very much doubt it. I believe he merely made a few phone calls on your behalf.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both fell silent as the plane took off, rattling the interior of the compartment gently. Dark night surrounded them as they glided into the clouds; even when Yassen saw Alex try to peer out the window, there were only a handful of dim flickers where the lights of entire cities must be. The interior dimmed after a short announcement, runners glowing gently to life as passengers grumbled and tried fitfully to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the plane reached cruising altitude a few minutes later, Yassen turned to see Alex studying him, his curiosity very much not as abated as Yassen had hoped. Sokolov had given Alex a dose of Xanax for the trip, but now Yassen found himself wishing he’d considered slipping the boy a sleeping pill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the deal you made?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to talk about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Is it that bad? Do you have to work for them?” A small pause. “Is it because of me? I mean, I know we got caught because of me, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. Alex would find some way to jump to conclusions and blame himself. Yassen made an effort to conceal his frustration; he was already worried enough about the inevitable resurgence of all the ‘identity issues’ Briar had explained to him a few weeks ago, on top of dealing with all the logistics of starting a discreet life in Russia. Not to mention what to do when Alex was well enough to begin drug seeking again in a country where such things were especially accessible. That would be a small nightmare. Yassen grimaced. “It’s just personal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. That was the wrong thing to say. Alex’s look of surprise was quickly replaced with hurt. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed, debating the odds of Alex letting it go if Yassen just left it there. Minimal to non-existent. Just because Yassen was already tired of discussing Estrov-- from the overview on the emergency flight to the handful of short interviews he’d had with Vankin at the hospital-- didn't mean that Alex wouldn’t fuss over his lack of information internally. He was also especially sensitive to any sign of rejection lately, though Yassen couldn’t entirely nail down why. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he could get away with a top-level answer and not a detailed one. He shut his eyes briefly. “Remember when I told you what happened to my parents and village?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hesitated only briefly before nodding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They want me to give them information about that. To testify in court.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked even more baffled. “You can testify? I mean…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the twitching of his lips. “I suppose I have a shortage of credentials to my character. I’m hardly a law abiding citizen even on paper.” He sobered a split second later. “Especially considering I’ll have to do it under my actual name. I’ll officially exist again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t officially exist?” Alex’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean under your actual name? Do you have a different one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. So many more questions and none he had the desire to answer. Outside of hospital, he was technically just another civilian. He doubted his smoking habit would be tolerated on board anywhere near as much as it had been by the SVR. “Yes to all of that. I don’t want to get into it right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the aisle from them, a middle aged woman with a severe gray bun loudly clicked on her personal light and adjusted her air flow. Tugging a small, brightly colored paperback novel free from her purse a second later, she propped it open and appeared thoroughly engrossed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex fell quiet. “Will you tell me later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would almost certainly have to, if this deal with the SVR lasted more than a few months. As much as Yassen was prepared to vanish at the first sign of serious trouble, he had to admit that this was probably as close to ideal circumstances as he was going to get when it came to providing a normal life for Alex. Not only would Alex have a stable living situation, but he would have active protection from both discovery from Scorpia and interference from MI6. Yassen wouldn’t have to maintain a delicate balance between accessing services for them and not being found-- technically, it would become someone else’s job to ensure they weren’t given a second glance. Not that he would ever rely entirely on that. Still, Yassen may actually get stuck here long enough to actually testify; if he did, he’d rather Alex learn the details of his life from him and not some half-regurgitated court document. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Alex chewed on his lip some more. Yassen almost thought he was done asking questions for a while when he finally turned back to him. “So what happens when we get to Moscow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally. Something Yassen was comfortable answering. “We get settled into the apartment Vankin has arranged for us. It will no doubt be bugged, so no more open questions after this. Our guards will take up residence in a unit nearby, but we will likely not interact with them again unless something goes wrong. You will work on getting well, learning Russian, and preparing to go to school, while I will meet occasionally with liaisons to help them plan their case and acquire evidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex met his eyes squarely. “Yes, but for how long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That will depend on a lot of things.” Yassen didn’t miss the frustration that answer seemed to elicit. “I am not being obtuse, Alex. It could be a week or it could be a decade. I will let you know if things turn one way or another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we’ll live in Moscow that whole time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a dry look. “Not if I have my way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “You have such terrible luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s hardly luck,” Yassen told him, adjusting his small personal light overhead. “Moscow is huge and heavily populated. Surveillance is largely state controlled, corruption is the norm, and it's a major government center. With discreet SVR support, we will have little trouble avoiding detection while still being close enough to access at a moment’s notice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Access?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered dodging the question. The little brat was sure to notice, however, and he didn’t want to give the answer any extra weight. “The guards aren’t just here to ensure our safety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Understanding flickered across Alex’s face. His lips pressed together. “They’re here to make sure you don’t reneg on the deal before we get to the apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged and crossed off another word on his crossword. “I’m apparently quite the flight risk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hesitated. “Do you want to run?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re hardly fit for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t ask that. If I weren’t injured, would you want to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. More self-blaming. There had to be a way to nix that, though Yassen wasn’t entirely certain how. Telling him directly not to blame himself would only invite conversation about Alex’s injuries being the reason Yassen was forced to strike a deal in the first place; while 100% accurate, he just didn’t want Alex to internalize it. It would only be wasted energy, but Alex was too young and thus too stupid to really appreciate that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a considering look. “This isn’t a terrible deal, little Alex. So far, I’m fine playing along with the SVR’s wishes, even if it’s unpleasant digging up the past. If that changes, I will tell you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anxious ochre eyes refused to leave his face, even in the dim light of the cabin. “But are you unhappy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen found himself completely frozen, as though the question had thrown a breaker in his mind and plunged the rest of his thoughts into dark stillness. No one had asked him anything remotely like that in… more years than he’d like to calculate. He refused to actually do the math, since the majority of these realizations surrounding Alex led back to his time with Hunter anyway. Maybe even back to his parents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It certainly didn’t help that he had no earthly idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flight attendant appeared from the depths of the flight compartment, pushing a beverage cart. They were in the first row, so she turned to them right away. “Can I get either of you a drink?” she asked in a low voice, glancing around at the mostly dozing cabin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vodka tonic,” Yassen said without hesitation. “Strong.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY, Y'ALL! Hope everyone is keeping safe. I've been looking forward to this chapter for quite some time, for the sake of a fun little twist. As always, I apologize for my abysmal response time, but I promise that I read each and every comment as it comes in. You guys are, frankly, the best.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex stared miserably at his lap while Yassen pushed his wheelchair through the security checkpoint at Sheremetyevo International Airport. Getting through took hardly any time at all since they were ushered through a shorter, priority line for medical exemptions. The woman at the desk hardly glanced at their passports before waving them past a metal detector with little ceremony. Even the small bag of medications Yassen carried for Alex didn’t get more than passing scrutiny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the SVR had arranged for it to be swift, but Alex didn’t think so: they just didn’t appear that interesting among the streams of international travelers. While it was the end of an exhausting day for him and Yassen, it was the beginning of the morning for airport employees and departing passengers alike. Rosy dawn-tinted sunlight streamed in from the large windows lining the terminals, as though taunting his lack of sleep with the day to come. Fortunately they could go straight to their taxi, since they didn’t have any bags to collect: they’d been provided with a simple set of clothes in a matching pair of carry ons, with promises that everything else that they would need would be waiting for them at the flat when they arrived. Alex was fine with that. He just wanted to get to wherever they were going fast, so he could fall asleep and check out on this miserable, shitty day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He probably wouldn’t sleep, all things considered. There was no easy way to sneak a glance at Yassen, directly behind him and pushing his wheelchair. Alex wasn’t sure that would help anyway: Yassen had his public face on, which was a study in minimalism and would have scored him big points on the Kabuki theatre circuit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex would give anything for some hint that things were fine though. Digging for details on the plane had offered zero reassurance. He’d even tried asking directly if Yassen was unhappy that Alex had gotten them into such a mess, but that had backfired spectacularly. Yassen hadn’t spoken since, but given the fact that he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>immediately started drinking</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Alex had decided that his answer was likely a resounding yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck, fuck, fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It shouldn’t have come as a total surprise that his hallucinations had chosen to make a terrible day even worse. The only silver lining was that it hadn’t been anything requiring Alex try to escape the confines of the plane while they were on it. Instead, he’d stared horrified as Yassen appeared to bleed out in the seat next to him, his eyes fading to that empty, mirror-like glass color, his skin the color of wet paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This one hadn’t popped up in ages. Maybe it was because they were on a plane together? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If anything, now Alex was even more confused and unsettled. As soon as he’d realized what was going on, Yassen had shifted so that Alex could discreetly put pressure on the imaginary wound on his rib cage, taking advantage of Alex’s compulsion to listen to teach him the words for everything airport related. Alex now couldn’t say for sure if Yassen was upset with him, but he could sure as hell pronounce </span>
  <em>
    <span>aerovokzal</span>
  </em>
  <span> correctly. Maybe it was the consistent stream of vodka tonics the flight attendant brought that helped Yassen deal with him for the rest of the flight, though he didn’t think the man had enough to get properly drunk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if Yassen was unhappy, why wasn’t there any hint of anger in the way he spoke to him? Yassen had a temper. Even when he hid it, Alex could usually pick up on it seething under the surface, but now he couldn’t sense anything like that. Had Yassen spontaneously gotten good at hiding it or had Alex lost his ability to read the man?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even after Yassen’s eyes had returned to their normal color, Alex hadn’t been able to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing he was certain of was that he was going to spend ages wondering just how much misery Alex was creating. Sure, the man might like Alex’s problems better than his own, but now that they were back in Russia, it seemed like Alex’s problems directly magnified Yassen’s own, up to and including whatever fucked up shit happened to him as a kid. Maybe Alex should worry less about the odds that he’d disappoint the man with his drug problem and instead re-examine just how much resentment he could generate with the sheer amount of pain in the arse-d-ness involved in just keeping him alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He suspected the answer was lots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The early morning rush bustled around them as they strode through past the gate. More dreadful early morning sunlight streamed in through the long windows as they passed various gates surrounded by economically attractive and almost certainly uncomfortable seating. The travelers walking in their opposite direction looked almost hatefully fresh-faced and rested. Smells were everywhere: fresh pastries and coffee, neutrally pleasant air fresheners that couldn’t quite mask the traces of cigarette smoke. Dull echoes sounded from all directions as people called out to each other, muttering into cell phones, and doing business with the handful of food carts and magazine stands. The speakers chimed with a pleasant woman’s voice giving some sort of announcement in careful, but rapid Russian. Rolling luggage wheels and pounding feet shot past them every few seconds as latecomers darted into the crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hated it. It was overwhelming after the relative quiet of the military hospital; apart from the background noise of his own monitors, they’d been more or less left alone when they weren’t actively assessing his health.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of his health, his hip felt like it was going to burn it’s way through his bandages. Even his chest and back were starting to flare into an agonizing swell after so much time locked in one position. Yassen had given him a handful of pills on the plane, but they hadn’t done much to abate the growing spread of pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you hungry?” Yassen asked him, as they left the terminal and headed into the main section of the airport. Alex could have sworn he could hear each one of the four missed smoke breaks in the man’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own voice was pinched. “Not really. Everything’s starting to hurt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s find our ride then,” Yassen said, steering his wheelchair towards the elevators that, according to the half-English signs Alex spotted, would take them to the ground level and baggage claim. “When we find it, I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soldatik!” Someone hollered, followed by an urgent whistle. “Ey! Boyskaut!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced around, curious despite himself. A smattering of amused and irritated expressions erupted on the faces of the other passnegers before people started walking again, going about their days. No one seemed remotely concerned, though it took Alex a split second to realize that Yassen had frozen mid-step. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wincing, Alex twisted to look up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a split second to register the almost naked consternation on the contract killer’s face before Yassen whipped around to locate the source of the shouting. Another whistle broke past the steady roll of background noise. Alex opened his mouth to ask him what the problem was when, out of nowhere, a dark haired man in a business suit and a dark peacoat broke apart from the crowd, striding towards them like he owned the place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex couldn’t quash his flicker of panic. Had they been recognized? Couldn’t be. No intelligence agent in his right mind would make such a scene, nor would any assassin announce their presence, but this man was undoubtedly interested in</span>
  <em>
    <span> them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fifteen feet away, Alex saw one of their SVR escorts break stride and make a beeline directly towards the sudden assailant, his partner hot on his heels. If their charges were to be assaulted out in the open like this, it probably wouldn’t look so good for them. Or their bosses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yasha Gregorovitch!” said assailant boomed, launching himself forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s initial panic and confusion gave way to shock as he realized-- probably a split second after Yassen himself did, stance suddenly rigid in an aborted strike-- that Yassen wasn’t being attacked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was being bear-hugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man half-heaved him off the ground, laughing with open delight at Yassen’s frozen expression. He was hardly much taller than the other man and couldn’t have weighed significantly more, but there was something about the way he held himself that seemed to give him added volume. His dark black hair was too ink-like to be natural and there was something a little odd about the lower half of his face. A stiffness, despite the grin. Some kind of plastic surgery or perhaps an injury to his nose, Alex guessed, as the man set the former Scorpia assassin down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen found his voice at last. “Dima?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ben waited impatiently for Tamara to pick up the phone, careful to keep his pace measured if somewhat annoyed. Stared up at the overcast sky with a practiced Londoner’s meteorological suspicion before pulling up his hood. He doubted he was being observed, but if his training hadn’t prepared him, these last few weeks of being in MI6 had certainly added to his paranoia. It rang for the eighth time. Why the bloody hell had she demanded he call her and then not pick up when he--?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daniels, look,” she said as the line abruptly connected. “I have to be fast. This is the last time we can speak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” Ben gripped the phone, staring out over the public garden he’d ducked into. A small dark green pond burbled beside him, filled to the brim with the recent rain and quiet apart from the occasional splash of koi. He dug a coin out of his pocket with his free hand and fed it into a small fish pellet dispenser, buying himself a reason to linger. If anyone at work asked, he was taking a leisurely stroll on his way back from lunch and lost track of time. He’d blame the pint he’d had over lunch with Wolf. “Is there any word on Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not since I texted you.” Tamara hesitated. “That’s why we can’t talk anymore. The Russians know that MI6 knows about Alex. They figured out that I was the one who leaked the information about the flight to you and I’m benched until Byrne decides how big of a problem this is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Ben told her. He truly meant it. It had been her risk to take by helping them and he knew that, but at the same time, he had to admit that her help had been the only real progress they’d made since Kingman. “I almost didn’t tell Jones the info, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt I had no choice. I mean--.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand. The more I learn about what’s going on, the more uneasy I am too. So much is going on with so many different people, it’s hard to tell what is really going on with Alex. Whatever information the Russians want from Gregorovich is important enough to brush off his </span>
  <em>
    <span>entire</span>
  </em>
  <span> file, but that doesn’t mean it won’t come back to bite the kid. Without being able to talk to him in depth about what’s going on, there’s no saying the MI6 isn’t the lesser of the evils here.” The sharp sound of a door being slammed echoed across the line. “You got the lab results I forwarded, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ben sighed. “Nothing. Are you sure they couldn't identify anything about the drug?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only that it would have some sort of effect on the brain, but maybe not directly on the nervous system.” She hesitated and cleared her throat. “There’s not to say that it isn’t a sedative or a medication of some kind, but it didn’t match any known ones in our international database and it’s exhaustive. This thing is probably highly experimental.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben set his jaw. “Why would MI6 give Alex experimental drugs?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea. Look, I’ll reach out if I can, but I have to go.” A short pause. “Good luck, Daniels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Knight. We’ll do everything we can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben stared at his phone for a long second. Made up his mind abruptly and pulled out his phone. </span>
  <b>Fancy another pint tonight before you ship out?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf’s response was fast; Ben had scarcely gotten back to the road. </span>
  <b>Maybe a quick one.</b>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! I hope you are all staying safe. Remember, us humans are just houseplants with more complicated emotions, so drink lots of water and get yourself some sunlight.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen sat across from Dima at the small table towards the far end of the bar. His stomach seemed to think he was in free-fall, hurtling towards the earth at terminal velocity. Weightless. Surely, at some point, eventually, he would hit rock bottom in this swirling nexus of a twilight zone his life had devolved into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The restaurant was cozy in that modern sense with warm lights encased in golden glass sconces, lots of sleek and shining marble bar-tops, and minimalist style furniture in dark woods. A tall glass water wall trickled gently beside them, functioning as a divider in the center of the restaurant. A nice place for businessmen to grab a quick drink and a little something to eat between flights. Tucked between the main terminal and baggage claim, it enjoyed a steady stream of commuters. Despite this, the restaurant was empty apart from them-- a “Closed for private group” sign had been posted in the entrance, in case the two darkly dressed guards ushering approachers away weren’t enough of a deterrent to anyone seeking a stiff drink at seven in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Private, but still public. Secure, but not without exits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was plenty for the assassin to chew on. Dima’s men were obviously known to the SVR: two more casually dressed men had intercepted their plainclothes agents at Dima’s nod without any outright aggression. So far, the men were all within visual distance of each other just outside of the restaurant, with a clear view of both Yassen and Alex. Both spoke into cell phones, watching the small group sat at the far table, no doubt updating Vankin of the detour. Neither looked happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt much the same. What was it about the past that refused to leave him alone? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And why </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all times?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Framed by the gleaming bottles lining the bar, Dima waved a hand, offering his pack of cigarettes to Yassen. His strange charisma had not dimmed in the slightest over the years. Walking with one of Dima’s arms slung around his shoulders as he’d led them to this restaurant, Yassen couldn’t shake the comparison to that day long past when he’d first stepped off that train from Kirsk; only now the casual touch inspired the instinct to put Dima in a choke hold, rather than any feelings of reassurance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you still have the habit?” the former street rat asked him in Russian as he lit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen accepted one reluctantly. Random chance hadn’t brought Dima to him, he was certain. Fate, perhaps. More likely: someone’s scheming. At any rate, Yassen was unarmed in the midst of several men who weren’t, and now seemingly caught in some sort of SVR overlap with organized crime, if his read of the men flanking Dima was correct. It was unlikely they’d be attacked in such direct view of the foot traffic, but not impossible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a short pull as Dima held out his lighter for him. “I gave it up for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m the same. Three or four times, actually. My children hate the smell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex watched them both with tense interest, despite not being able to understand the conversation. Their impromptu vocabulary lesson on the plane certainly hadn’t prepared him for this. His wheelchair was stationed beside Yassen’s seat where he sat quietly, lips pinched with suppressed pain. As much as he hated it, Yassen would have to ignore it and focus on the new problem first. Alex would just have to grin and bear it for now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A woman dressed in the subtle black clothes of waitstaff strode up to the table and set down a platter of pastries and sliced breads. Alex met his eyes briefly, as Yassen shook his head lightly. It was better to risk offending their host until Yassen had a single fucking clue as to what was going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coffee or tea?” she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coffee,” Dima replied, before gesturing at Yassen in a clear invitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither. For both of us.” Yassen tilted his head at Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the disapproving shifting of his guards, Dima seemed to take no offense. He continued studying him, a half smile curling the edges of his lips. He’d obviously had some kind of surgery to repair the damage to the lower portion of his face and it had been largely successful, if you didn’t notice the slight stiffness around his cheekbones and lips. A fortunate failure of the surgeons, all things considered: that stiffness was the only thing that had made him recognizable to Yassen at the very last second. “You don’t look happy to see me, little soldier. Is this any way to greet an old friend after so many years?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive my manners, Dima, but I am hardly inclined to catch up. You are one of too many coincidences of late.” Yassen pointedly glanced at the inconspicuously dressed guards. “And I find myself curious as to what the Russian mafia wants with me or why it has not been done with more discretion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot help my enthusiasm, but I assure you we are perfectly unobtrusive now. This is my restaurant. Nice, yes?” Dima said, gesturing with his cigarette and exhaling smoke out of the side of his mouth, choosing the opposite direction of Alex after a brief glance his way. “You may speak as freely as you wish. There are no listeners. However, I know you are a cautious man now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t blink. “Do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So distrusting! Perhaps that is wise, given your profession. Allow me to save us some time.” Dima leaned back in his seat. “You are correct in that I am part of the Moscow Kireyev bratva now, whilst you are a Scorpia man. Or was. There have been various rumors regarding that, but the fact that Scorpia has been giving me the run around for the last several months about whether you will be my liason suggests that you are perhaps not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen declined to answer that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shrugged at his silence. “More recently, I know that you have struck some kind of deal with the SVR and are being relocated to Moscow in a sort of witness protection. I have no wish to interfere with any of that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen studied Dima for any hint of a lie, not that he necessarily expected to find one. Perhaps Dima had no idea what the SVR had actually bargained with him for. The “old mafia relationships” Abramoff intended to attack within the current government could very well be Dima’s concern, but whether or not he understood that Yassen was potentially a threat to those was another matter. What did he know? Obviously, if he had intercepted them here, he had some kind of insider access with the SVR. It wasn’t exactly surprising: the mafia and the government were more or less the same thing in this country. Or had been. It had been factored into Yassen’s decision to testify and he’d expected an eventual level of awareness, just not this quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or this loudly. Or affectionately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The biggest potential problem was now the information Yassen now found himself sorely lacking: who exactly Abramoff intended to pin Estrov on. He hadn’t gotten a straight answer, but hadn’t been inclined to continue digging when Abramoff dodged the question. He’d hardly had any reason to be concerned before; ten minutes ago, Yassen had no connection to the Russian mafia that he hadn’t shot personally. Scorpia’s potential ties weren’t really a concern either since Ferri had mentioned that their contract had more or less fallen through and Yassen would be quick to disabuse anyone of the notion that he was still working with them. If it were some random politicians or military men that the SVR was after, that might be fine. If it were any one of Dima’s bosses…. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen exhaled a neat plume of smoke towards the door. “How convenient. As is meeting you here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima snorted and leaned forward. “No, soldatik, it is divine intervention.” His muddy eyes, suddenly less mild, seemed to drill a hole in Yassen. “Do you know how many times I wondered what happened to you? How many I nights I spent laying awake, thinking I’d gotten our stupid little pioneer killed somehow? I went back, you know. To that apartment building. Every night for two weeks I waited outside, hoping you’d hidden yourself in a cupboard, stuck waiting for the owners to leave. Roman and Grigory waited too; we took shifts. Eventually, I bribed the door man to tell us if you were ever seen again. I even went through the dumpsters in case you’d been killed and disposed of with the trash.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s stomach hollowed out, though he didn’t allow the faintest of flickers to show on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been so long ago. Decades. It shouldn't affect him like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t stop the new emotional responses, summoned by the unholy trinity of boredom, drinking, and childcare. Dima, Roman, and Grigory were street kids who understood how their world worked: if you didn’t come back, there was nothing to be done. You were simply gone forever. Help was expensive to offer, especially to a friend that was most likely dead or in prison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet they had tried, if Dima was to be believed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shook his head and tapped his cigarette on the crystal tray inset in the center of the table. “And then, nearly twenty years later, a Scorpia negotiator gives me a list of prospective liaisons for our renewal and who do I see? I knew it was you at once. It had to be. Not only did I recognize your face, your name is practically the same. My bosses are unhappy with Scorpia at the moment but the decision of who is to handle our international interests is mine. I persuaded them to be patient while I shop around. Meanwhile, I dug in my heels at Shackell’s table: no deal with Yassen Gregorovich means no deal with Scorpia. No one else would do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took a slow drag on his cigarette to buy himself a moment to gather his thoughts. So the assassin on the cruise ship hadn’t been lying. No wonder Scorpia had been pursuing him to the ends of the earth. If Ferri’s gossip was also correct, it seemed their most viable contract was tied exclusively to Yassen. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima rolled his eyes. “I just told you, soldier. I knew it had to be you and I wanted to see you in person. What happened that night you slipped in through the window? Why didn't you come back? I spent years wondering what became of you then, and in the last year, I’ve spent many months more wondering how you became what you are now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Destiny seemed determined to force Yassen to have many conversations he did not remotely want to have, over and over and over again. It would be refreshing, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>once</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to have someone ask him to kill someone for money, rather than discuss the horrors of his childhood or his reasons for keeping this damaged child at his side now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly what do you wish from me?” Yassen tapped against the side of the ashtray, watching Dima’s goons tense at the movement. “I believe that you are curious, but as I said, I don’t believe in coincidence. You did not spot me by accident. You knew I would be coming to Moscow today and how I would be coming. Why approach me in such a loud manner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Dima grinned. “I’m glad you’ve stayed sharp. You’re correct, of course. I knew you would be here today because I have a close relationship, shall we say, with certain members of the SVR. Enough to know that you were coming today, but not enough to obtain your new identity nor coerce them into giving me a direct meeting with you. Believe me, I tried.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took another drag, raising an eyebrow. “So you took your chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima beamed. “I hate being told no. I find it is much easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “As for what I wish, I keep telling you: to catch up with an old friend. It sounds stupid, but it is true, I promise. There is certainly no one else I would care to do this for. Roman is dead and Grigory might as well be. If you are working for Scorpia still, I will happily sort out the details to keep you in Russia with me. If you are not, I am not concerned. I will pick another organization for our international needs and pester my dear friend Yasha to get drinks with me anyway. Persuade you to work with me somehow. I have several legitimate companies if you’d rather a quiet life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And my relationship to the SVR?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shrugged. “What of it? I don’t know the details of your deal with them, but I do not think that I have to. Either it concerns Scorpia or it concerns something else. Either is fine.” He rolled his eyes at Yassen’s sudden sharp glance and waved a hand. “As I’ve said, Scorpia is but one contractor of many and not a particularly reliable one at that. Not lately. They could go up in flames tomorrow and I would not weep; many other organizations are replacing them in the market. As for whatever else you might be involved in, I very much doubt it relates to my branch of the bratva-- much to my eternal frustration, I have turned up no overlap between you and I these days. We have enough moles in the SVR to know if anyone internally meant us harm. My bosses are not at risk, so as Obshchak, I see no need to intervene.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman from before returned with another small tray. Setting a glass coffee pot between them, she set out two coffee cups with a small assortment of creamers alongside a bottle of orange juice for Alex with a glass of ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced at him. The boy hadn’t been hungry on the plane earlier, but Yassen was sure that had only been in comparison to his desire to get out of the airport. His occasional glance at the food suggested he might have more of an appetite, though Yassen’s paranoia was very much awake and accounted for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> It was a sealed bottle and it was unlikely anyone was interested in poisoning a teenager who couldn’t physically run anyway. They might still try to drug him the way the assassin had planned on the cruise ship, in order to use the boy as leverage. If they did, a faint poison in the ice or along the rim would be a better choice than concealing damage to the bottle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead,” he told him. “Skip the glass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Dima said, after a minute had passed and Yassen made no move to either speak or touch the coffee. He stubbed out his cigarette. “Will you come work with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to think about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima placed a hand over his heart and gave a light gasp, as though wounded. He snorted at Alex’s jerk of surprise. “I suppose you have not managed to live so long by being impulsive. Very well. Think it over.” He nudged the pot towards Yassen, seemingly unbothered when Yassen declined to take it and simply started on his own coffee. His spoon clinked against the side of his cup as he stirred in a single creamer. “All right. I’ve been good. I led with business first, for the most part. Vegetables before dessert. Now we must catch up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “Forgive me, but you won’t find me chatty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima wagged a finger. “Then I shall have to chat enough for us both,” he announced. “Well, since you will not give me your history, I shall give you mine. A year after I saw you last, Grigory and I were inducted into the local mafiya. I suppose I never told you before where all our money went, no? It certainly wasn’t spent putting bread into our stomachs. I was paying protection kickbacks to the local branch in exchange for promises that no one would bother us while living in the heart of their territory. It turns out that I was quite good at extracting promises from others too and they let me join as an associate. Grigory wound up in prison within a few years. Still there. I did much better.” He grinned a little crookedly. “Truthfully, I do not think I would have risen so quickly if I hadn’t met my wife. Her father was only a captain when we met, but when he rose, he took me with him. He’s Pahkan now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How fortunate for you.” That certainly explained things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Dima was Obshchak, that made him responsible for the security of his branch, whether it was arranging for actual physical security, paying bribes to the right people, or dealing with rival groups. Pahkan, the boss, tended to promote only those they could intimately trust to the position. Usually decades of proven loyalty were required to even be considered. Relatives and family friends were the most common choice, given the mutual layers of shared interests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The situation was rapidly growing more complicated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really was.” Dima poured himself a steady stream of coffee and took an almost theatrical swallow, as if to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>see how I didn’t poison it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “At any rate, you might say that I’ve become quite boring since. Nothing like the excitement of our old days on the street. I got married. I had three beautiful children with Katya. I bought a house. Went into business; some even legitimate. I got older. Now, I am accosting old friends in public out of misguided sentimentality, it seems.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t help himself. Dima was just so… Dima, after all these years. “Perhaps it is senility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never!” Dima chuckled and propped his chin on his hand. “Ah, but tell me how you have been, Yasha. Give me your vague, cautious answers. They are better than nothing. How is life?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It couldn’t exactly hurt. He’d play along for now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t quite help glancing at Alex. “Tiring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima laughed. “I know precisely what you mean. My three are nearly all teenagers. Nothing but complaining and drama and fighting. Is he yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not exactly.” Yassen relaxed a little in his seat. “Though I am responsible for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got that impression. He does not speak a word of Russian, does he?” Dima glanced at the boy. Alex stared back, obviously still on high alert. Dima declined to comment on that.  “So why are you with him if he is not yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s complicated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima sighed when Yassen failed to elaborate. “You are very good at being vague. I don’t know why I’m surprised.” There was a small, distant buzz. Dima fished an iPhone out of his pocket and consulted the screen. He stood with a snort. “Time to get scolded, I see. I imagine you will also--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s jeans pocket buzzed at the same moment. He exchanged amused glances with his former friend and stepped away from the table to answer Vankin, remaining within reaching distance of Alex. His day was only getting better and better.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Super long chapter today, since the Wolf POV part is too short to be a standalone but doesn't tack on very neatly to anything else. Ah, well. Extra words for these trying pandemic times.</p><p>As always, I love reading everyone's comments. Really and truly. Your doubt is both righteous and understandable, given my utter shit reply time. Promise. ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Wolf scowled at Ben across the table, picking at his chips. The pub was large but fairly uncrowded, as it had been commercialized by a chain recently. Gone was the old world charm and in its place came it’s carefully sanitized generic imposter: the mismatching frames were carefully color coordinated and artfully chipped, the specials printed on the chalkboard were obviously some kind of computer font, and the brick walls that cradled the booths turned out to be some kind of textured wallpaper. It’s disingenuine nature wound up being handy for them since they could find a nice empty corner to speak freely in the utter absence of local traffic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been hoping to squeeze in a few more errands before he had to return to base tomorrow morning, yet here he was panicking about this stupid kid again. Ah, well. At least it was news. “So we’re out our only useful source of information? This is grand. Exactly how long do you think we’ve got until we’ve the CIA on our doorstep for that medicine stunt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head, pushing away his hardly touched pint. “I doubt they’ll come after us directly. Too risky. I’d be more worried about them telling Jones who their leak was talking to.  They might not. Being accused of consorting with a foreign spy agency would be a nightmare for us, but even doing that is too much trouble for them seeing as the CIA is hiding Alex’s capture in Colorado as it is. We might get lucky, but the last year hasn’t exactly made me an optimist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how did you explain the way you found out about the flight to Jones?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anonymous tip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure that misled her plenty. Not an optimist, my arse. She’ll never figure out that we’ve been sneaking around behind her back. Not after our stunt with the injections--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the important part, Wolf. Think about it. Why is MI6 trying desperately to give Alex experimental drugs? It makes no sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing his chips away, Wolf shrugged heavily. “Nothing about this kid makes sense, Fox. Maybe it’s experimental in a good way. Maybe it’ll cure his schizophrenia or maybe it’s to fix his drug addiction. I’m not sure I’m more worried about that then the fact he’s somewhere in bloody Russia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can’t be either of those,” Ben insisted. “There are already treatments that have proven track records to treat both of those problems, so why did they throw him in a prison instead of a legitimate high-security clinic? Something tells me that this chemical stuff is more important than we know. Someone has to have answers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf sighed and scrubbed his hand over his buzzcut. As much as he wanted to accuse his old teammate of cracking under the stress, he couldn’t just dismiss his concerns like that. He’d had a hard enough time over the last week trying to stop his own brain from wandering down the path of paranoid speculation. Maybe some part of him really did think the kid was part of his team; Wolf would be damned if he didn’t have an irrational sense of fury-inducing failure for letting the enemy run off with him. It must be just as bad for Fox. Ben was in the spy world now: he was probably far better at imagining horrifying outcomes beyond finding the kid’s broken, bloody body in a ditch somewhere in the desert. He’d lain awake thinking about it more often than he cared to admit. “Well, who do you think that is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Well, obviously Alex knows more than he was able to really tell us. Gregorovich too. Whatever spooks the Russians sent probably know a little, not that we’ll ever pin down who. Joe Byrne. Mrs. Jones.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf gestured at his pint. “There’s no chance we can speak to that crowd, even if any one of them could write us a damn book about all of the intrigue and answers floating around in this mess. Let’s try this: who</span>
  <em>
    <span> might </span>
  </em>
  <span>know something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tamara could be lying about what she knows,” Ben offered, obviously still on his own track, though he didn’t seem particularly sold on the idea. He paused and seemed to consider the new point. “I still haven’t gotten a hold of Smithers. I’m suspicious. Jones says he’s away on personal leave, but I’ve never known him to be gone this long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since early December, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf jerked a hand at the tinsel decorations contaminating the bar across the room, almost off-putting in it’s artificial formality of cheer. “It’s barely past New Years. He’s been gone for the holidays, clearly. Really, Ben? Suspicious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben scowled but accepted the point. “It’s very unlike him and that’s according to his assistants too. Lived for his work, in my opinion. Interesting type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf squinted at the agent, taking a pensive sip as he struggled to remember their conversation from a few weeks back. “What did you say he did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He handles specialized equipment for our agents. Develops a lot of it himself, too. I’m certain he outfitted Alex for his missions, so I was hoping to speak with him about what he saw of the kid’s mental state if not figure out where he might get his hands on any equipment like what he had in Kingman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he went on this mysterious personal time when you first tried to call him then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s when I first noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean to say that he went on this mysterious personal time right when Alex suddenly had access to bombs and a tranquilizer dart immunity?” Wolf said pointedly. He waited until a flash of realization broke across his team mates face. “Honestly, Fox. Aren’t you supposed to be an intelligence agent? Obviously he knows something to do with Alex’s being on the run. Obviously he knows where the brat got that stuff. More than us, probably. What we need to figure out is what MI6 is on about with this story about him being away and then how we go about getting ahold of him ourselves. If he’ll even talk to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did I not see it before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think your mind has been focused on the American angle for too long.” At Ben’s shrug, he couldn’t help adding, “I mean, Knight’s cute, but she’s not that cute. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vankin crossed his arms, giving him an incisive look as the assassin pushed the boy’s wheelchair inside and shut the door. His handler had been waiting for him in a backroom deep in the administrative section of the airport. It contained only a small conference table and a few rolling chairs, offering a rather lackluster view of a small patch of grass between tarmac runways covered in jagged iced over snow. Yassen had spent the last half hour waiting, his escort agents and the mafia men alike hovering, while Vankin both arrived and secured them a place to talk. Alex had known better than to ask questions where there were observers, though Yassen was well aware that this was a reprieve and not an escape from the boy’s curiosity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lots of fun conversations today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What business do you have with Dimitry Nikulov?” Vankin demanded without preamble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed, rubbing his leg well below his hip. Yassen hissed through his teeth anyway, in lieu of scolding him about leaving his stitches alone with actual words. Alex stopped. “We’re not going to head out anytime soon, are we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will try to make it fast.” Yassen dug into his pocket and handed him two small pain pills. He turned back to Vankin and raised an eyebrow, switching back to Russian. “It would be more accurate to say that he has some unfinished business with me. What do you know of him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apart from his prominent role in the Moscow mafia? Plenty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a measured look. “What business?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says he wants me to work for him. I’m not sure I believe him,” Yassen said, crossing his arms. “How connected is he to the Estrov charges?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin set his jaw, seemingly chewing on his answer before he gave it. Just because the SVR needed him certainly didn’t mean that they trusted him. Vankin was obviously considering the odds that Yassen had arranged this somehow. Whether to call off this entire operation. “He isn’t, so far as we know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And his mafiya branch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His Pahken has loose ties to some of the businessmen Sharkovsky dealt with at the time, but I wouldn’t consider his risk substantial. It was before his time and the Kireyev bratva absorbed many of the holes left in the local marketplace by Sharkovsky’s demise, but very little of his actual operation. We did not consider their branch to be an issue to us before now.” Vankin gave him a look. “Do you have reason to think he has any interest in our investigation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sucked on his teeth and grimaced. “Only the timing, but even that can be explained.” He smothered a sigh. More personal information to pass out. Fantastic. “We were friends as children. Street orphans of Moscow. I assumed he was dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did he learn of you?” Vankin demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “Scorpia offered my services to him a year ago, before I was captured on Air Force One. He recognized me. Refused to work with anyone but me to satisfy his own personal curiosity. It explains why they have pursued me so vigorously.” Yassen met his handler’s eyes. “Otherwise, it seems your organization and his have overlap that he took advantage of. He knew we would be on a plane coming to Moscow today, but said that he could not find out our new names. My concerns for your agency’s security aside, if he is being honest about his motives, there may be an opportunity we can use. What do you believe those to be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin exhaled slowly, giving Yassen a considering look. Nothing shocking there: Dima’s enthusiastic reintroduction into Yassen’s life made for quite the unexpected and unwelcome surprise for everyone. “I don’t know. It could easily be as he says.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you say that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are reasons for him to be concerned at home.” Vankin glanced out the window. “Did he tell you how he got his position as Obshchak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He married well.” Yassen couldn’t quite conceal his snort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charming his way up the pecking order seemed like a very Dima thing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Unfortunately, he’s on the brink of divorcing poorly.” Vankin met his steady look and gave a half shrug. “His wife has been quite indiscreet about the situation. It’s an open secret. His father in law was grooming him to take over for his retirement until recently. Arguments between the two over the children he and Katya share. There’s talk that Sergey is grooming his nephew, Igor, to take over instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen drummed his fingers against his arm, thinking it over. “You believe Dima is shoring up outside support. Drawing on resources likely to be more loyal to him than his in-laws to secure his influence, assuming he doesn’t have a coup of his own in the works.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin hesitated. “Most likely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling in his stomach felt suspiciously like relief. “I can work with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen fixed him with a bored stare. “I mean, unless you have reason to think he has any real interest in Estrov, I will accept Scorpia’s offer to represent them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a sharp look. “This--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will not interfere with our deal. I did not promise you Scorpia, I promised you Estrov.” Yassen gave him an unimpressed glance. “Don’t complain. This will benefit you greatly. With MI6 blocked in court by your accusations, the next biggest threat Alex and I face is Scorpia. If I secure the bratva contract for them, I can ensure that I survive long enough to testify for you. Scorpia has no true interest in Estrov, even if they eventually learn of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That wasn’t strictly true, of course: Scorpia did not condone any unsanctioned cooperation with authorities, for any reason, no matter how unrelated. It was a matter of reputation. It was a matter of internal trust. It would be much harder to forgive than stealing a helicopter or shooting other operatives. Regardless, that wasn’t any of Vankin’s business and Yassen was confident that the organization was desperate enough to compromise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, it was his best play. If the bratva could find Yassen, so could Scorpia eventually. Likely MI6. Yassen needed to buy himself time to take control of the situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin crossed his arms. “Tell me why I should trust the organization who shot your brat last week to not murder the both of you and ruin my operation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a flat look. “Because Scorpia is a business. They like money. Besides, as I have said, this is what they have wanted from me all along. I simply intend to give it to them on my terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will not look good to my superiors if you are active.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged and glanced out the window at a distant plane taking off. Envied it, a little. “I don’t look good to your superiors regardless. If it will make them feel better, I can arrange for Dima to employ my cover identity legitimately for the sake of appearances. Scorpia will negotiate in my favor, so I will insist on remaining a consultant and key man in Moscow. Others will do the… less savory work overseas while I manage at a distance. I need not be an open terrorist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin pressed his lips together. “You couldn’t possibly make this easy for us, can you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing about this has ever been easy,” Yassen pointed out, sneaking a furtive glance at Alex. That knocked a thought loose. Damn. He must have been more frazzled than he thought to have not thought of it until now. “One final question. Does Dima’s bratva have any ties to Nikolai Drevin’s associates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin shot a glance at Alex and raised his eyebrows. “As a matter of fact, they were rivals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful.” He pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. A quick glance told him the ventilation of this room wasn’t as good as the restaurant’s and the windows didn't look like the type that opened. He might as well exhale directly into Alex’s face for all the good it would do. He shoved them back into his pocket. “But it is workable. Make your phone calls. I’ll make mine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex’s fingers dug into his arms so hard his flesh went white. Patience was entirely out of reach as his anxiety reared its head, exhaling flames of panic and incinerating the final shreds of his self-control. If he’d been on edge because he wasn’t sure where he stood with Yassen, not knowing where he and Yassen stood with the world made things infinitely more terrifying. Not to mention he’d just spent the better part of an hour listening to a conversation he couldn’t understand, surrounded by a lot of armed men he couldn’t identify, in a country he didn’t want to fucking be in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julius laughed, leaning up against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you fucking start,” Alex snapped, glaring at him. Thankfully, his psychotic twin remained silent. “I’m not in the mood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin glanced up at him from where he’d been frantically tapping at his phone with the most aggravated expression Alex had ever seen on the man. “Pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not you.” Alex rubbed his temples. He didn’t recognize whatever Yassen had given him, but whatever it was, it wasn’t the good stuff. The pain had muted, but not beyond minimum-bearable levels. Alex was torn. On the one hand, now was a terrible, stressful time to get high. On the other hand, Alex was more than ready to check out. “Where’s Yassen? Who was that guy? What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a tired look. “Many unexpected things, but hopefully it should all work out. I’ll let him explain it all however he likes. He’s making some phone calls, but he should return soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pressed his palms against his eye sockets and growled. “Are we going to get killed? Sold to the highest bidder? Fed to sharks? If so, hurry it the fuck up. I’m sick of waiting!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate waiting! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” Distantly, Alex knew he was being an utter, horrid, immature brat. His mortification couldn’t hold a candle to the frustration surging through him. Everything was horrid and complicated, pressing down on him from all sides with enough force to push the air from his lungs. He didn’t even have the option of running away-- as much as he tightened his legs and prepared to push himself free of his wheelchair, his stitches gave a sharp warning pinch to remind him why he wouldn’t get very far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he knew exactly where he was in the first place. Or how to communicate with the vast majority of people surrounding him. Or where he could hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t stand it anymore. Crawling out of his own skin wouldn’t be enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That, and apparently speaking at a normal volume,” Yassen said, pushing open the conference room door and fixing him with a disapproving frown. “Drawing attention is the last thing we need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean like getting bear-hugged by some mobster looking guy after he shouted your name at the top of his lungs in the middle of one of the busiest airports in the world? You mean drawing attention to us like that?” Alex snapped. He buried his hands in his hair and yanked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julius cackled. Alex twisted to glare at him. “Shut up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen said something short to Vankin, who didn’t waste a second in his escape. The door slammed shut behind him before Yassen turned to him. “Get yourself under control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Alex snarled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed and dug into his pockets, pulling out a small vial of blue pills before shaking one into his hand. He offered the Xanax to Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shocked them both by slapping his hand away, sending the pill skittering across the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you need, little Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex deflated. Everything felt… wrong. Jagged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had been acting strange ever since they’d gotten to Russia, maybe even a little before that. Things had definitely gotten worse since they’d left Koltsovo. Alex couldn’t keep pushing aside his misery forever, no matter how hard he tried. It was like being in prison all over again, only less predictable and pleasant. All he wanted was to curl up and stop having to be hyper-vigilant of their observers for ten fucking minutes, but he couldn’t even settle for that. This was the first time in days he’d even been alone in a room with Yassen and it didn’t seem to improve things as much as he’d hoped. Time was caught in quicksand and refused to shake itself loose; they’d never arrive at their flat, they’d never settle down, they’d never really be safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If calming down felt impossible, the idea of explaining it to Yassen felt doubly so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears threatened the corners of his eyes with traitorous moisture. Alex shoved his hands against them to stop them by force. “Never mind,” he whispered. “I changed my mind. Just get me high.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t move from his position and Alex didn’t move his hands. He was probably counting the exits: Alex hadn’t missed the fact that every time he cried, Yassen seemed ready to kick out the drywall and claw his way to freedom. Eventually, he heard the man sigh. “Is that the only thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex refused to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t I give you the short version of a long story, hm? Set expectations as much as possible. Believe it or not, today may have actually been very good for us.” Yassen dragged a rolling chair from the conference room table. Alex heard its wheels rattle against the laminate tile. “That mobster looking guy, as you put it, is actually just that: a high ranking member of the Russian mafia here in Moscow. He’s also my friend from when I lived on the streets here as a boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex peeked at his bizarre caretaker through his hands. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I said, it’s a long story,” Yassen said, grimacing. “At any rate, he got wind that we’d be here and went out of his way to get my attention. He’s also the reason Scorpia has been pursuing us so aggressively. Dima’s decided to make me the only Scorpia liaison he’ll accept for a contract with the mob. He has his own political reasons for dragging me into this, but I’d consider them fairly harmless compared to the rest of our problems. At any rate, I just got off the phone with Dr. Three and Shackell. Scorpia has agreed to leave us alone if Dima signs the contract. The SVR won’t complain about our business together so long as I’m acting only in a consultancy role.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip, studying Yassen’s face. “What does that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It means,” Yassen said, the fluorescent light casting harsh shadows on his features as he turned his head, a picture of exhaustion for only the briefest of seconds, “That if all goes well today, I might have successfully gridlocked everyone who wishes to do us serious harm. The SVR will shield us from MI6. The Mafia will shield us from Scorpia. Scorpia will shield us from everyone else. Even if </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone on the damn planet</span>
  </em>
  <span> finds out where we are, we’re essentially untouchable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Alex wiped his eyes, brain reeling from the massive ramifications. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All that’s left now is to talk to Dima again and discuss his terms. I’m not sure how long it will take, but it will likely run late. Russian business takes a notoriously long time but I’d rather have you nearby. I know you’d much rather rest, but we only have to do this once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded. “Right. Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was such a selfish prat. Here he was having a temper tantrum about being tired and confused while Yassen was basically playing the world’s most complicated game of criminal Jenga so they wouldn’t get murdered. Which he wouldn’t have to if Alex hadn’t gotten himself shot. God. He took a quick glance at Yassen’s somewhat avoidant gaze, feeling his cheeks flush as he thought of Vankin’s desperate flight from the room. He pressed his hands to his face. It was already bad enough that he was actively destroying Yassen’s health and making him unhappy. Not only was Alex such a mess, not only was he making things infinitely harder for them both, but he was probably embarrassing the man too. His freakouts had been uncomfortably visible to the SVR and Alex had very nearly dragged his snit over to a meeting with Yassen’s old friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No wonder Yassen was rushing to give Alex a Xanax-nap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s your pain?” Yassen glanced at the clock mounted on the wall above the light panel. “Your doctor said not to give you too many at once, but you’ve been stuck in that chair all day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged, looking down at his lap and wishing he could sink into the floor. “I can handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can give you more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it.” Alex stared at his hands. “Sorry I’ve been such an arse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him an irked look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a trying morning for us both,” Yassen pointed out. “And the deck is far more stacked against you than it is me. You’re injured and in active pain. You’ve neither slept nor eaten for the last day and a half. You haven’t had a moment alone in days, don’t speak the language, don’t know where we’re going, and out of nowhere a bunch of armed strangers suddenly converge on us for an hour long conversation that you can’t decipher except for the occasional mention of the terrorist organization that shot you less than a week ago. On top of your regular panic attacks, mood swings, and hallucinations, of course. It would be unreasonable to expect you to behave perfectly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex winced. “I had juice,” he said lamely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “Yes. You had a few swallows of fruit flavored syrup water to spike your blood sugar just high enough to send it crashing. We mustn’t forget that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex twisted his lips. “You can’t keep claiming all of my shittiness is low blood sugar, Yassen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a real thing,” the contract killer insisted. He jerked his head at his carry on bag, where Alex’s many, many medications had been stored. “Is there anything you’d like before we sit down with Dima again? I know you are short on rest and would rather proceed to the flat, but I want to keep you in my sight at all times. We have such odd luck as it is. I half expect our landlord to be a member of the Triads or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t jinx it,” Alex warned, smiling a little despite himself. He sobered a second later, shifting awkwardly in his wheelchair with a grimace. “Maybe one more pain pill. Is there anything I should avoid talking about if someone asks me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen forked over the tablet without hesitation. “It’s unlikely anyone will bother you, but we are soon to have a business relationship. Our histories will not be a complete secret, even as complicated as they are. Just don’t mention anything to do with the SVR or our new identities for now. I’ll update you as soon as I have more of an understanding of the situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex swallowed the pill dry and sighed. “You say that a lot.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY, EVERYONE! I'm really excited for today's chapter, as it's one of my absolute favorites. I shall apologize in advance for Dima's English accent-- actually, no. Let me apologize for all my writing about Russia and Russian-ness. (Sorry to spoil the magic but I've never been, nor actually met any Russians so I'm heavily relying on the internet and my research skills). On that note, feel free to drop me a comment if I get anything glaringly wrong-- I'd really love to know and/or gain some insight.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dima gave them a cheerful nod as they returned to the entrance of the restaurant. Yassen pushed Alex’s wheelchair at a steady pace, mostly to make them predictable to both Dima’s men and to the SVR agents who’d replaced the ones that had followed them onto the plane. All were dressed in some approximation of business casual clothing, so while it was clear that something of importance was going on, it would be unclear to an outsider just what that was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin had declined to be present, in exchange for his agents remaining in the restaurant as a sort of guard. Likely, the man was needed elsewhere and didn’t want to be seen consorting with mobsters too frequently, even if it were a given that his official position required it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen returned the nod, depositing Alex on the side of the table to Yassen’s right and to Dima’s left. The boy was in a much better mood now, though whether that was the pain pill or the short walk around the conference room that Yassen had coerced him into taking that had done the trick remained uncertain. At any rate, he seemed wary of the situation but a lot less prone to violent outbursts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thank god.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ignored his distant pang of bitterness as he settled into his own chair. While it might have been a poorly timed moodswing, Yassen knew better than to assume that Alex’s emotional responses occurred in a vacuum. He’d simply put the boy’s mental state on the back burner and Alex had paid the price. Not that Yassen had any opportunity to deescalate him anyway, but it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise that he’d had a temper tantrum. At least he’d had the good sense to conceal it until they were behind closed doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just because Yassen wasn’t used to juggling his care with project management didn’t mean that he could continue failing at it, especially if this deal with Dima ended up being a long term arrangement. He would simply have to adapt. Somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima offered him another cigarette, which Yassen accepted. “Any drama with the SVR?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged noncommittally as Dima lit his own cigarette, well aware of the SVR agents hovering behind him. “Nothing concerning. This matter lies between you, me, and Scorpia. I’ve ensured that they understand that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima raised his eyebrows. “That was quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These things can be.” Yassen threaded his fingers together over the table. “Their only conditions are that I represent Scorpia in a consultancy manner which, at least in passing, will need to appear legal. Scorpia has tentatively agreed to this arrangement, pending any additional requirements that you would like to add to their proposed contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been almost painfully easy to get ahold of Dr. Three. Yassen knew several of the direct lines to his operation; simply by dropping his name to the assistant who answered, he had the man on the phone within two minutes. If Dr. Three was surprised to hear from him, he didn’t show it. He had simply listened to Yassen’s matter-of-fact explanation of his current position and demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> His terms had been simple enough. Scorpia was not to engage in any pursuit of either Alex or himself: no blood samples, no direct contact with operatives for Alex, nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The matter of Yassen’s first betrayal had been the only real sticking point: the audio file that MI6 had, in fact, ensured to arrive on Scorpia’s doorstep, in which Yassene promised to divulge fifteen years of Scorpia’s operating secrets in order to remain with Alex. To have done so should have been a death sentence, regardless of the fact that Yassen hadn’t actually told them anything; Scorpia’s reputation for ruthlessness had been earned. However, with their reputation already circling the drain, certain compromises and risks were necessary. Considering that none of the many assets or accounts Yassen knew intimately had been compromised in the weeks since he’d gone on the run, they’d quickly confirmed that the tapes were to be disregarded as an errant tactical decision. There was more important business to attend to.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, had only been implied, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three’s reluctance had been short lived before he quickly jumped in to discussing the details of the contract; largely similar to the several Yassen had initiated on their behalf before, if on a somewhat more generalized scale. It certainly wasn’t ideal for Scorpia to have a troublesome former operative with emotional ties to a mentally ill child representing them, but between Dima’s in person meeting with him at the airport and the specific requirements he’d already laid out, they didn’t exactly have a choice if they still wanted the deal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole conversation took less than a half hour when all was said and done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that his issues with Scorpia were resolved. Scorpia never forgave and Scorpia never forgot. Yassen expected difficulty from them in the future, but not soon. It would be a costly boat to rock. After they spent the next few years repairing their international image, they might decide Yassen was too problematic to put up with, but for now they would all play along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima grinned. “I knew you were glad to see me, soldatik. The stipulations I set out before will be fine, provided you agree with them. The key man clause I included essentially makes you my international decision maker and essentially treats you as an independent contractor. If you are unhappy with Scorpia for any reason, the contract dictates that you can end our relationship with them and select another organization. Thus, whatever deals they make with you to ensure that you choose their services are under your control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it was, out in the open. Dima really was uninterested in a relationship with Scorpia. It was Yassen he was trying to court.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something told Yassen that this could be as dangerous as it was fortunate, but that was par for the course in his life, really. So long as Alex’s life was quiet and relatively uncomplicated, Yassen would deal with the rest. It was a gamble, but one that had to be taken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are agreeable to me,” Yassen said, allowing none of his internal deliberations to show. “I will set up a meeting between your people and Jason Shackell. He wishes to be present for the signing but will function as a distant overseer for this project.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t object to that if you don’t.” Dima shrugged and jammed his cigarette between his lips. “So how do you want to be employed on my books? I can quite easily drum up some paperwork to make you the head of computer science or something, but if the SVR knows your actual identity it will have to fit with your skills and qualifications, yes? What title do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his brow furrow. He had never encountered this issue before. Normally, he’d be listed as an advisor or consultant in a field that was suitably vague: international relations, project management, operations manager, etc. Titles he was comfortable with and roles he could easily fulfil, as those tended to be loosely defined anyway. Dima didn’t know it, but even if he were employed under his new cover identity, Lebedev, there was a decent chance that if the SVR’s Estrov aspirations were to succeed, all of Yassen’s time in Moscow as an adult would still have to be accounted for later-- under his actual name. However, his actual history as Yasha Gregorovich was spotty at best and if qualifications were considered in the context of a court hearing, they would not pass up to scrutiny in a high powered position. Under his legal name, if such a thing still existed, he had… nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing to make his employment at the top of any international companies seem legitimate, especially one that would have frequent contact with the upper members of the business world. He hadn’t even completed his basic schooling as a child. Even a lowly personal assistant would be expected to have substantial education at this level. He could hardly explain away his lack of a business degree with his experience working for Scorpia. Perhaps they could play it off as Dima’s favor for a childhood friend, but in court, nepotism only looked mildly better than outright criminal activity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as Yassen’s apathy towards the success of the SVR’s case was genuine, if it crumbled too early or if Yassen was deemed too much of a liability even in exchange for his testimony, it would cost him and Alex a key support system in his criminal gridlock. It paid to consider the optics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have to think about that,” he said, absently tapping his cigarette and staring out at the water feature without seeing it. “It’s been a long time since my identity has mattered, even in passing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima drummed his fingers on the table. “I can invent a job title for you. Chief Nostalgia Technician sound appropriate, Yasha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “Don’t joke. It has to appear legitimate on paper, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So let's get more ideas, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Dima shrugged and turned to Alex. “If you need to give him job title at my company, without talking about Scorpia, which would you use?” he asked, in clear but heavily accented English. Yassen started, earning him a smug look from the old thief. “Yes, yes, I have learned English. It took more than ten years and many private lessons, but I speak it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex considered them both, clearly not expecting to be addressed, before he shrugged. “How important does it have to be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima tilted his flattened hand in a so-so gesture. “Enough to be around important men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pursed his lips, glancing at Yassen again, who shrugged and waved him on. “How about a linguist? He speaks loads of different languages and being self-taught wouldn’t matter so long as he was really good.” He gave Yassen a dry look and pointed to his injured hip. (Yassen almost groaned, just by looking at his expression, he knew the boy was going to a little brat.) “Either that or personal trainer. He’s got the ruthless personality for it. He gets mean about skipping leg day. I got shot and he won’t let me miss it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled at the little jerk as Dima erupted into laughter. “Translator would work,” the contract killer said, continuing in the same language. At least Alex wasn’t panicking anymore. “I do speak nine languages on a business level and I’m working on a tenth. Even if the position generally requires credentials, there are often exceptions to the rule. It is not an obvious deception.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima nodded. “Sure, sure. Personal translator it is. My company is, how do you say, expanding international presence anyway. Instead of hiring service for meetings as normal, it is reasonable for me to employ old friend who is fluent to work in-house and on-call. I will get this thing arranged.” He snapped his fingers, twisting to look back at the bar counter. The woman from before poked her head out of the kitchen and Dima called to her in Russian to bring some menus. “Where are my manners? Let us have some breakfast now that business is taken care of. Tell me, boy, what is your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave Yassen another glance, waiting for his somewhat tired nod, before answering. “I’m Alex. It’s a pleasure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima offered him his hand to shake. “Hello, Alex. The pleasure is mine. I am thinking my dear friend has been rude to not have introduced us before. I’m Dimitry Nikulov, but you can call me Dima. Am I right in that you are British? You sound very British to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I knew it! How interesting. So far as I understand, you are very well mannered people. Very fancy,” Dima said, with obvious dry emphasis on that last word. “Here is a question I’ve always wanted to ask a British person, so forgive me if I sound foolish, but do you all drink tea as often as the television shows suggest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen tried very hard not to roll his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s antics earned him a laugh from the teen. “Yes, actually,” Alex said, relaxing in his chair. “I used to drink tea at least once a day. I miss it, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mafia man gave a disapproving click of his tongue. “Yassen,” he said, with false admonishment. “Have you been starving your British boy of his tea? Such cruelty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t help but be amused as he took a long pull from his cigarette, exhaling away from Alex and towards Dima’s henchmen. “I have not. He is welcome to all the tea he wants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex made a face. “That Lipton stuff Americans drink doesn’t count. It’s tea flavored juice.”</span>
</p><p> <span>“Well, we shall have to find you some proper tea,” Dima said, signalling to the woman as she brought menus to their tables. “Now. Alex. How do you like Moscow so far?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Alex found himself relaxing fractionally as breakfast wore on. After being certain to obtain Alex’s detailed approval of the black tea he’d served, Dima seemed content to do the majority of the entertaining as his guests ate. Occasionally, Alex struggled to understand him but as the meal wore on, it became less of a problem as he’d already had plenty of practice in the hospital with the accent. Dima’s English was quite good, the biggest issue being the occasional article confusion or gap in vocabulary, though he plowed on quite confidently as he assured Alex of all the delights that awaited him in Moscow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After that, Lenin’s grave is quite disappointing, though I say it is worth visit, eh, soldatik?” Dima said, nudging Yassen gently with his elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man in question seemed to waver between amusement and annoyance, at least as far as Alex could tell. Yassen had affected what Alex liked to call his “sociable blankness”, which seemed to be a favorite when closely observed in public places. Small, expected signs of emotions were shown, but rarely beyond a shallow intensity. Dima seemed half determined to needle the man into something more sincere, while also seeming to make the effort to not push too hard or actually be inconsiderate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was fascinating to watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex set his spoon aside. Dima had recommended a porridge called kasha, similar to the oatmeal Jack used to make him at home as it was just oats boiled in milk with sugar sprinkled atop it, sans the fruit chunks and fistfulls of raisins his housekeeper had been fond of adding for ‘nutrition’. “Why do you call him that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima paused. “Call him what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soldatik,” Alex said, stumbling a touch over the new word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima grinned suddenly, probably because he’d seen Yassen’s expression crease. “Oh, that’s, how do you say--” he glanced over at Yassen. “I should ask my linguist, no? How do you say </span>
  <em>
    <span>prozvishche</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nickname,” Yassen provided, stiffening. “It’s just a nickname.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s it mean?” Alex asked, half wondering if he should drop it. Yassen clearly didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t seem uneasy or worried. Just unwilling, with an undercurrent of something else. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar attitude in the man, but it wasn’t a common one either. Interesting. Alex turned back to the Russian mobster.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soldier is most direct translation,” Dima told Alex contemplatively, with a glance at Yassen as though inviting him to contradict him. “But it is not what you may call a proper meaning. I call him this word because of what he wore when we first met. His outfit-- no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>uniform</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- for Young Pioneers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raised an eyebrow, trying to picture Yassen in anything remotely like what a pioneer would wear and failing entirely. He picked up his tea. “I don’t think that translates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shrugged, then straightened and snapped his fingers. “I have it. Boy scout. Young pioneers are, one says, Russian Boy Scouts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex choked on his tea, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his face before he could dribble all over the tablecloth. Had a little come out of his nose? His sinuses burned between gasps of laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen rolled his eyes, strange undercurrent now identifiable as embarrassment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Dima</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He asked,” Dima said, holding up his hands as if to paint himself an innocent hostage of Alex’s rampaging curiosity. His facade lasted all of two seconds before he leaned towards Alex and added, “You should have seen him, Alex. He was so tiny and --what is the word--” He slung an arm around Yassen’s shoulder, ignoring him stiffen noticeably and requesting something in Russian only to be ignored by the now mortified assassin. “--cute? Yes, cute. Big sad blue eyes, so harmless looking. Like little baby kitten. American ladies would throw money at him without him saying any words--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One time,” Yassen grumbled, still stiff in Dima’s embrace. “That happened</span>
  <em>
    <span> one</span>
  </em>
  <span> time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--and so Yasha, sorry-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- was our best beggar. Kept us uglies fed,” Dima finished with a rueful grin, a quick flash of something bitter around that last bit. Alex wondered if it had much to do with what he guessed was cosmetic surgery of some kind around his nose and lips. The mobster patted Yassen’s shoulder before finally releasing him. “Not as cute and little now, of course. I wish I had a picture. You would not believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally convinced he wasn’t about to spew tea everywhere, Alex released his face and set his napkin down. “I can barely imagine it,” he said, eyes watering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’ll just have to because there are none,” Yassen drawled, looking at his watch. “It’s been very gracious of you to host us, Dima, but I should get Alex to our new accomodations before he asphyxiates on his tea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That set the little teen off in chuckles again. Russian business only took long when it didn’t involve Yassen’s childhood, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s own chortles trailed off, seeming a touch disappointed that they were going so soon while not seeming all that terribly surprised. He reached into his pocket and offered Yassen a business card, saying something short to him that Alex couldn’t begin to decipher. He turned back to the boy and offered him another quick grin. “Good luck getting settled. Perhaps I will tell you more stories next time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Alex said, twisting in his seat as Yassen pushed them towards the entrance of the restaurant. “Please do.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! I'm glad everyone seems to be doing so well. As always, let me know your thoughts! I read all my comments, often several times. :D You guys rock.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen watched eerily familiar streets flicker past the windows of their taxi cab, trying to ignore the distant echo of cathedral bells. Not only was it jarring to recognize the occasional facade of some past squatter’s paradise now renovated into a series of high end apartments, it added to mental sludge he was already forced to wade through given the course of their morning. Some of it couldn’t be avoided. He’d tolerated Dima’s minor but annoying attempts to embarrass him, of course: not only was Yassen used to dealing with mild abuse from clients, he’d understood that there was likely a sort of strategic reasoning behind it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now to figure out what that was. The mobster’s mannerisms had been… off. Friendly, on the edge of unprofessional. It was odd for a Moscow businessman of any calibre to be so touchy and expressive at all, outside of close personal relationships. There was an obvious implication there: the mafia man wanted to clearly signal that they were friends. Good friends, too, despite having thought each other as likely dead for decades until only recently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Dima had always relied heavily on his people skills, he’d clearly telegraphed to any observers that Yassen and he were closer than they actually were. But for whose benefit? Probably not Yassen’s, since the man had relentlessly sought to embarrass him, to the point of nearly speaking down to him a time or two. While Yassen was resigned to tolerating it, it was hardly befitting of his actual position as an independent contractor-- he’d be an employee only for show. No, Yassen was almost certain that he wasn’t the intended audience for the man’s displays: Dima was managing the impressions of either the SVR agents or his own men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Interesting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was also interesting that Dima hadn’t sought to demand more from his negotiations. It wasn’t quite like any contract he’d ever seen: written to require as little compromise as possible, while favoring Yassen’s complete autonomy. That was both surprising and not. Win-win situations were hardly recognized among the bratva crowd and every concession required a loser, making negotiating stressful by nature. Yet Dima had gone out of his way to ensure that Yassen need only sign his name. While that had gone a long way to ensure agreement, it might have also necessitated Dima’s strange attitude: his teasing and casual jabs meant to conceal any potential signs of weakness his lack of additional demands might have revealed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed it was also possible that his behaviors were tics Dima had picked up dealing with foreign businessmen-- his mannerisms would likely come across as reassuring to westerners expecting outgoing personalities as a matter of course. Yassen considered the idea briefly, before a more likely option rose to the forefront of his suspicions: Dima did not trust all of his men. Likely few of them, if he were gambling so hard on Yassen and willing to go to such lengths to conceal his true motive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This could get complicated if not carefully managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nudged him. “You alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged, inhaling sharply as he was pulled out of his reverie. “I’m fine. Do you need more painkillers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head, eyes flicking out to study the buildings they passed in the early afternoon light. Well, what was left of it through the overcast sky. Clouds had rolled in sometime during their meeting, casting thin light across the already dirty slush of city snow. Fat fresh flakes were beginning to fall in earnest, sticking briefly to the windshield before melting away. “No, I was just wondering if you’re upset Dima teased you so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cab driver shifted slightly in his seat. While he was certainly an uninteresting looking man so far as civilians went, Yassen was ninety percent certain he was an SVR employee of some kind. He was a little too alert, his movements a little too deliberate for someone wholly untrained in martial arts even though he was a good thirty years older than Yassen. A startling limberness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he expected trouble. Not exactly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head as the cab began to slow in front of one of the buildings. They had left the main city areas a few minutes ago, moving deeper into the sleeping districts: the apartment packed areas outside of the downtown business area, where most Muscovites actually resided. “No. Dima’s always been like that. Don’t worry about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Instead of settling back into his seat as expected, he stared at Yassen with furrowed brows for a few long seconds. “Do I say your name wrong?” he asked at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had half slipped back into his own thoughts. “What? No. Yasha and Yassen are different names.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I got that. I mean the pronunciation of what I call you.” Alex must have picked up on the return of his bewilderment because he sighed and picked at a thread in his lap. “Dima said it a few times, but he makes your name sound like Jason, but with a Y at the beginning instead of a J. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yay-sin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Obviously, I’ve been calling you </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yaw-sen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Have I just been saying your name wrong this whole time and you just... never corrected me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about Alex’s tone carried a faint hint of hurt. Yassen had to quelch the urge to explain that, actually, his name had evolved out of his unwillingness to correct </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> pronunciation, starting with Sharkovsky. However, that would require delving into topics he didn’t want to remotely deal with; certainly not before they figured out this apartment situation and Yassen had had a chance to get a stiff drink in himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settled for the next easiest, honest answer. “You say my name the way all English-speakers do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it is wrong.” Alex’s face creased.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bozhe.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Don’t let the brat internalize anything new. Not today. “Both are right.” Catching Alex’s scowl as it formed, he added, “I’m not placating you, that’s actually how it is. I’m well used to both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I do say it wrong, you’re just used to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his lips press together. Why did Alex care? The boy was probably saying his name the way he’d heard it from Alan Blunt or Jones or whoever had first mentioned him. Yassen obviously was willing to answer to Yah-sin as he had for years, so what did it matter? Names were just a sound people made when they wanted your attention. Arbitrary. Yet Alex wore that same smacked-for-no-reason face as when Yassen had told him once that he’d lied to him twice. Maybe he thought Yassen not correcting him was akin to a lie? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stifled a groan. This morning only kept getting better. There was zero reason his name possibly having a different vowel sound should be an issue, yet Alex obviously had found one. If unaddressed, by the end of the week it would morph into something unrecognizable yet deeply problematic to the brat’s day to day functioning. Somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It shouldn’t work like that but Yassen knew damn well that it did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen folded his arms, managing to refrain from pinching the bridge of his nose. “When you lived in London, was your name </span>
  <em>
    <span>A-lex</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Al-ix</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinked. “It’s the same name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To you, because you’re used to hearing both, but the stress moved. It actually changed the vowel sounds slightly too. Which one is the right one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s brows furrowed. “Say it again, more slowly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. You can’t tell unless you’re paying attention, meaning you consider both as your name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen arched an eyebrow as Alex’s jaw set ever so slightly. “Did your housekeeper say your name wrong for years, then, or was it your friends? One is more American and one is more British. Guess which is which.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The loose thread in his lap seemed to be deeply engrossing. Utterly enthralling. Eventually, Alex looked up, his scowl still only half formed. “You can’t tell me you don’t hear the difference, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I do,” Yassen agreed. “But both are my name. The same name.” He studied Alex’s face briefly, then added, “Neither are more… accurate to me, little Alex. I’ve spoken English a lot more than Russian in the last twenty years. I think in it most days. If anything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yay-sin</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the more uncommon of the two for me to hear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s lips twisted at that, oddly, but his expression overall had lightened. “So it’s not really wrong, how I say it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally. Yassen allowed himself to enjoy the brief flare of victory. “No. It sounds right to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They arrived at the address with little difficulty. The cab driver nodded to him and got out, striding confidently to the trunk to retrieve Alex’s wheelchair. Yassen climbed out and surveyed the light street traffic. Nothing concerning there. Yanking open the door to help Alex, he noted the boy’s wince as he shifted position with care. Face already pinking with chill, Alex was obviously tired and the added strain of the day would soon catch up with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The faster they got to the apartment, the faster they could both rest somewhere warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absently tugging Alex’s hood over his head, Yassen stared up at the devyatietazhka style building with a flicker of doubt. Nine stories tall with dull, uninspired architecture. It hardly stood out amongst the sea of identical boxy buildings, apart from being a slightly more orange-yellow than its immediate neighbors. Vankin had assured him that the accommodations would be adequate, but they were already further out of the downtown area than Yassen preferred. Where was the closest school? Ideally, he would prefer to enroll Alex somewhere both international and private, given his unfamiliarity with the language and his propensity towards questionable behavior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t strictly a problem yet. Surely there was something available by public transport. He nodded to the driver as the man held Alex’s chair for the boy to settle into, Yassen taking control and pushing him towards the building a second later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one’s ours?” Alex asked over the flat buzzer sound, as Yassen pushed him inside after entering the building code. A small elevator waited just within the entryway, squeezed tightly beside a stairwell. An aged corkboard hung beside it, it’s pockmarked face covered with notices for the residences and the occasional lost dog flyer. Alex eyed them with mild interest as he brushed the snow from his fringe. “Will someone let us in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen rolled them in, stabbing the fourth floor button. “406. I already have the key. We should be free of any babysitters, at least in person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hummed, clearly getting his meaning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scarcely a minute later, Yassen navigated his way around two bikes and a baby stroller parked casually in the hallway with a scowl. Wheelchair accessibility was obviously going to be limited. The external door of their flat was a heavier build, with a decent lock to deter the casual thief. ‘Casual’ was not a word Yassen would use to describe those who would bother pursuing them at this point, though. Anyone could breach their door if they came with equipment or were unconcerned with making noise. Even those that prefered silence would only have to be so competent to get around it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his lips pinch. He turned to Alex, “Wait here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a wry look from his seated position. “Don’t worry. I shan’t wander off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still unhappily unarmed, Yassen allowed himself to shift back into fight mode. Dealing with anyone lying in wait was more a mental preparation than anything else. Given his surprise reunion this morning, his confidence in the security of the SVR’s relocation of them was less than overwhelming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did a quick walkthrough. No intruders awaited them and no obvious surveillance devices-- not that he looked particularly hard for the second. It hadn’t been explicitly stated, but Yassen fully expected to be under constant observation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that the interior was particularly reassuring from a living standpoint. Yassen crossed his arms, considering the little apartment. There was a lot that was less than ideal. While it was not dissimilar from several motel rooms they’d stayed in before, Yassen would not have picked this himself. Not long term.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even so, it wasn’t as though he could leave the boy in the hallway all day. He returned to the entrance to collect him. With a half concealed sigh, Yassen dragged Alex’s wheelchair to a stop just inside the door. There was barely enough room for it in the tight space as it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least it was a quick problem to solve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like your walker?” he asked, nodding to the one resting against the wall beneath the coat hooks. The entranceway was lined on one side with built in seating and various storage spaces. On the other were the two doors that led the bathroom and the second to the shower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged and grabbed the offered device, easing out of the chair like a little old man. “Not really, but it can’t hurt.” He paused. “Is it hot in here or is it just me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels fine to me,” Yassen said, realizing he hadn’t spotted a thermostat in his walkthrough. He glanced around to confirm and stifled a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we turn down the heat anyway?” Alex asked, yanking off his coat one-handedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His groan was harder to stifle a second time. “There probably aren’t any controls for that. The utilities are set and controlled by the state. There’s no changing them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was fine, Yassen reminded himself sternly. He could get Alex a fan or crack one of the windows. A small problem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The main room was only loosely divided from the kitchen by a doorway with no actual door in the frame. It hardly seemed necessary to divide them as both were barely the size of a large closet each. Fully furnished with only the basics; what items weren’t made of wood were mostly brown, gray, and blue. A small desk had been set beside the aging television, a dusty desktop computer perched atop it and taking up the majority of the space. It was when Alex spotted the folding, fan-like sliding door divider on the far end that Yassen actually pinched the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. Fantastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walker tapping against the plastic tiling, Alex went over to the sliding, fan-like folding divider at the end of the room immediately, tugging it open with zero effort despite the small clicking noise that accompanied the motion. “I think the lock on this is broken,” he said. Yassen had already confirmed that, but seeing it again made him want to rip the damn thing from the wall. Alex glanced inside at the small sleeping room, containing only a single full sized bed with a small wardrobe shoved in the corner. “Is there only one bedroom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced. “I think the couch folds out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex considered it, gripping his walker with obvious consternation. Yassen hardly blamed him. Obviously, it would be quite difficult for him to set up his bed every night and tuck it back away every morning; given the size of the living room, it was likely difficult to access the bedroom while it was extended, meaning it couldn’t be left out all afternoon either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen found himself too fed up to address the slight baffled note in Alex’s voice. Vankin hadn’t lied-- these were perfectly normal accommodations. Most people in the city lived much like this and quite a few of them probably lived worse. Privacy was a luxury, generally speaking: children often slept in pull out beds or on the couch while the parents took the back room. Having his own room in Estrov, small though it was, had been the envy of most of his childhood friends. Even in urban Russia, little priority was given to having separate areas for sleeping. No proper locks, except </span>
  <em>
    <span>perhaps</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took a deep, calming breath. He had to keep things in perspective. It wasn’t like he and Alex were unused to being around each other. Most of the motel rooms they’d had were combined, with mere feet separating their beds. It hadn’t been a problem then. While Yassen had envisioned them gaining more privacy, it was hardly a deal breaker. These problems had solutions. Locks could be added. Yassen would just take the couch and Alex the room--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door slammed somewhere to their right. Yassen’s hand slid into the back of his shirt, instinctively searching for a handgun that was no longer there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A baby began crying in response to the noise, preceding a woman’s sharp voice in an adjoining room. He couldn’t hear each exact word through the painfully thin walls, but he could make out enough to understand more or less who his neighbor was scolding for waking her offspring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absolutely not. Yassen was prepared (barely) to deal with Alex day-to-day, not other people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lay down and rest for a bit,” Yassen ground out, pulling out his cell phone and flicking it open even as he strode to the small computer. Counting on the SVR was quickly becoming impractical. A quick wiggle of the computer mouse brought up the screen and he opened the first internet browser he spotted. There was no point in going through his security rituals to obscure his internet traffic from Vankin. “Don’t unpack just yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hesitated. “Maybe I should listen to some music?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was offering to sweep for surveillance with his little iPod. “Only if you think it will help you sleep,” he said, with zero enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a minute, the boy shrugged, tiredness winning out against his caution. “Alright. Wake me if you need me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s search yielded immediate results. Glancing through a few listings, he quickly dialed the number and stood, striding out onto the balcony and yanking out his pack of cigarettes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It rang twice before a cool, feminine voice answered. Her Russian contained a strong British accent. It was probably what had gotten her the job. “Washburn International Real Estate Agency. How may I assist you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need an agent for the downtown Moscow area,” Yassen said, tugging free his cigarette from his lips only long enough to speak clearly. He replaced it immediately, drawing as much smoke into his lungs as he could handle. The biting wind threw spinning flakes of snow in his face. It was nothing compared to his irritation. “Rentals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, sir. Transferring you now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely waited for the answering agent to finish introducing herself. “I need an apartment in the downtown area, Western style. Modern is preferable, proximity to any international schools is a priority. Fully furnished and private, with excellent security. Is this something you can do for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman typed furiously on her end of the line. “Of course. There are several that should fit your needs. When will you be available to tour the properties? I can work around almost any flight schedule and even arrange for a private car. All of next week is--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen exhaled a plume of smoke, looking out at the balconies of their neighboring buildings, heaped with bikes, sports equipment, and children’s toys, all covered with a thin layer of snow. “I’m already in Moscow. I’ll pay a premium, in advance, if I can sign the papers today or tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like in all the service industry, ‘premium’ was the magic word: everything that could be done would be done swiftly. He had scarcely hung up on the woman after providing her his details before his phone beeped to signal a new incoming call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t bother checking the caller ID before he answered. “What idiot picked this apartment?” Yassen asked in Russian, stubbing out his cigarette on the snow dusting the metal railing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No doubt their apartment was surveilled for sound, since Vankin didn’t ask him what he was doing or who he had called (not that such surveillance would require more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>an upturned glass pressed to the side of a neighboring apartment’s wall</span>
  </em>
  <span>). Vankin’s own frayed patience was abundantly clear in his low tone, inspiring no sympathy in the assassin. “Exactly what is so wrong with it? It might not be luxurious as the boy may prefer, however--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luxury is hardly my concern,” Yassen snapped. “What possessed you to put a kid who can’t temperature regulate in an apartment without controls? What genius tried to hide a child with loud, violent hallucinations in a building with paper thin walls and no room to run from his phantoms?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can hardly run in his condition as it is,” Vankin countered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we are here in another month, it will quickly become a significant problem. We will stand out greatly among our neighbors if they hear him leaping atop furniture and shouting at people who don’t answer back. I will arrange for our own accommodations.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. That unit was picked for several reasons-- the biggest being security.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen actually scoffed at that. The security of this apartment building was abysmal by operative standards; a dog in a chocolate factory was arguably safer. Vankin was relying exclusively on anonymity and the temporary security team to keep them alive. “It offers the greatest ease of surveilling us. That is hardly the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin didn’t bother denying it. “We’ll arrange for more sedatives. Keep him nice and calm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They will put him to sleep. We’ve been down this road before and it will end with him neglecting his basic health and shall almost certainly prevent him from returning to school. It will not do.” Yassen set his jaw: he would be damned if he was going to essentially recreate Alex’s hazy prison state. He had zero intention of peeling a drowsy Alex from various odd surfaces in the indefinite future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you realize how much more likely you are to stand out downtown?” Vankin demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen yanked open the balcony door and strode the few short feet to the computer and did another rapid search. “Very little, I surmise. Even if anyone notices that the odd boy next door is British, there are no less than eight international schools in the downtown area, meaning there are hundreds of foreign students, if not thousands, for him to hide among. He will hardly be of interest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what about you? If you are also recognized--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By who?” Yassen snapped. “The mafia? The government? Even if anyone connected to the current administration sees me, recognizes me, and questions what I am doing in Moscow, it doesn’t matter anymore. As far as they are concerned, Yassen Gregorovich is from nowhere and still works for Scorpia. My deal with the mafia obscures my true purpose in Moscow far better than you embedding us in the sleeping district ever would have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our deal is not subject to your every whim, Gregorovich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s voice rivaled the frigid weather outside. “Our deal is dependent on my cooperation. My cooperation is dependent on Alex resuming a normal life. I can evade prosecution on my own, so don’t bother bringing up my freedom. These ‘whims’ were specifically raised when we discussed what I required in accommodations. You had access to all medical information you needed to understand his day to day needs. You’ve even witnessed his fits. Placing us in this location was an oversight, and it certainly wasn’t mine. I will handle it this time, but bear in mind, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I do not like mistakes.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hanging up with a snap, Yassen glanced towards the back room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raised his eyebrows at him from where he’d carefully collapsed onto the bed. He hadn’t understood much, most likely, but the boy was getting uncomfortably good at reading him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s fingers were already seeking out his pack in the depths of his pocket. “Everything’s fine,” he told him, tugging open the balcony door. “Finish your nap.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday! Sorry, everyone, for the late posting. I’ve gone camping and I forgot to post before I left, so now I’ve got my fingers crossed with my one bar of cell reception and dubious mobile skills. Hope this actually posts and sorry to my ff.net readers if this doesn’t get cross posted until Wednesday. You all rock!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alex struggled to keep his face smooth as Yassen paid the taxi driver. This building was quite unlike the previous one: it was ten years old at most, rising at least twenty stories in a gleaming pillar of smooth glass among the rest of the downtown skyscrapers. He wished he were surprised. Something like guilt coiled in his stomach as Yassen neatly repositioned his wheelchair before holding his arm out to Alex to use as an anchor. He couldn’t wait to stop using the damn thing in another week, since that would at least remove one thing Yassen had to put up with purely for Alex.</p><p>It hadn’t exactly been a leap to figure out where Yassen had gone off to. Within seconds of arriving at the apartment, Alex had recognized all the signs of Yassen’s annoyance: the faint creasing near his eyes, the tight body language flashing out here and there in the man’s normal sea of calm. He’d been careful not to seem remotely demanding as he explored the apartment, but now he was worried that his innocent questions had come across as petulant. Yassen had certainly seemed discontent, and after shooing Alex back to sleep, had made a few phone calls before he rapped on the little divider to tell Alex he was going out for awhile. It had made him uneasy being in the apartment alone, even though he knew they had a small security team nearby. He’d placated himself by awkwardly limping his way to the computer and looking at Yassen’s browsing history. </p><p>Alex squirmed. He hadn’t meant to imply that he didn’t like the odd little flat they’d been taken to, it just wasn’t arranged in the usual way. Yassen had already been tired from dealing with all the weirdness of the day and then Alex had come across as being ungrateful to have a place to stay. He really didn't mean it like that, but by the time Yassen had returned and trundled Alex into his thick coat to leave again, he’d known it was too late to explain.</p><p>The polished interior of the entrance made him feel that much worse. Gleaming white and gray tile had been artfully arranged across the floor while abstract paintings hung daintily on the wall, lit by their own sconce lights. A shining red tinsel tree had been tastefully displayed near the windows. Rows of mailboxes lined a side area beside the administrative offices separated by a concierge desk, while a pleasant sitting area spanned the rest of the space, complete with a crackling fire. With a pleasant ding, the shining elevator arrived on the main level. Alex breathed a small sigh of relief as the doors slid shut and concealed it all from his sight.</p><p>Yassen stiffened ever-so slightly behind him. Right. The elevator thing. Wheelchair bound as he was, Alex had again left Yassen with no choice than the least convenient to accommodate him.</p><p>If he thought Yassen would accept it, Alex would have liked to apologize for existing. </p><p>The walk to their new apartment was short, which Alex found himself grateful for as he didn't think he could choke out any conversation as it was. This door was a lot more complicated than the last-- Yassen tapped a keyfob against a small plate and typed in a short code near the handle. With a sharp click, the door unlocked and Yassen pushed him inside, pausing only to interact with a small alarm panel while Alex gaped. </p><p>It was as though this apartment was a direct inverse of the previous. A wide, open concept floor plan spread itself across his vision, warm recessed lighting sprinkled generously throughout. Floor to ceiling windows beamed at him from the other end of the room, which was tastefully decorated with sleek modern white and gray furniture. It flowed into the equally open kitchen, offset by a breakfast bar and stools built into the counter, with dark granite countertops and white cabinets. Alex couldn’t see too far down the hallway, though through an open door he saw a guest bathroom and a small pantry tucked away against the side.</p><p>Yassen wheeled him over to a small, plush bench where the entryway opened into the main living space and helped him out of his chair. “I signed the lease an hour ago,” he told him, setting their carry-on bags beside him. He pulled out a small flashlight. “I’m going to do a quick sweep to be certain, but I don’t think we have any listeners quite yet.”</p><p>Alex steadied himself as he stared out at the chic flat, trying his best to conceal his horror. Fiddling with his iPod, he quickly opened the bug sweeper functionality, desperate for distraction from his growing sense of guilt. He had never really allowed himself to think about just how much Yassen must spend to keep them both going. It had been easier to shrug it off when Alex’s needs were limited to low-end hotel rooms and petrol station candy. Now, he couldn’t do anything except think about it. Forget the DS he’d bought him, this apartment had to cost thousands of pounds a month. Based on the contentious tone of that phone call, Alex was willing to bet the SVR wasn’t picking up the tab on this one. How much were those endless motel rooms? Their travel expenses over a period of months? The cruise? </p><p>When the other man returned, Alex struggled to keep his face perfectly smooth and free of anxiety. He must have failed spectacularly, because Yassen was on him in an instant. </p><p>“Another panic attack?” he asked, tucking his flashlight into his coat. Alex would have to remember to ask him about that later. He came to stand beside him and gently set the wheelchair aside. “I can give you something for it if you like. I’m sorry today has had more sudden changes than expected.”</p><p>Alex shook his head, forcing himself to take a deep breath to the count of four. “I’ll be fine. I didn’t even realize I was having one until now. It’ll pass.”</p><p>Yassen nodded, studying him as he sat down next to the teen. “Good. There’s no rush.”</p><p>Alex pressed his palms against his eye sockets and counted his breaths. It only took him about a minute and a half to buck off the worst of it. “Why did we switch apartments?” he asked eventually, trying not to visibly wince. Hopefully Yassen would just think it was the lingering panic.</p><p>Yassen leaned his head back against the wall and scowled. It was the most open expression Alex had seen on the man’s face since he’d awoken in Russia. “It was a security nightmare. For us, at any rate. The SVR could have pressed their ears up to the keyholes and overheard every word we said.”</p><p>Alex bit his lip. “I thought it was in their best interest to keep us safe. That’s why they assigned a small team to watch over us for the next few days, right?”</p><p>Yassen shrugged. “That team is there more so to ensure we don’t take off. As far as I can tell, the SVR’s entire approach to our safety is to hide us in obscurity. For most informants and witnesses this would be fine, but in our case, I’d consider it wholly inadequate. They’d rather invest in disguising us rather than actually protecting us. It’s cheaper for one and easier to explain away on paper without tipping off anyone checking their books.” He glanced at Alex out of the corner of his eye, clearly sizing up his mental state. </p><p>“Go ahead,” Alex said. At the man’s raised eyebrow, he added, “The not-so-good truth you’re not certain I should hear right now. Just go ahead.”</p><p>Yassen gave him a wry look, conceding the point with a tilt of his head. “Now would be a good time to consider the honeymoon phase with the SVR over. They have successfully wooed us into the heart of Russia under their protection. Assisting us is still in their best interest, but I have already given them samples of my blood for DNA matching and a few preliminary statements. Technically, they can move forward without me, though it is far more advantageous to keep me close and cooperative. Expect that they will be as annoying as they are helpful from this moment forward.”</p><p>“DNA?”</p><p>“I’ll explain that part later.” </p><p>Right. That probably had more to do with his case. Alex mulled that over. “If they wanted us at the other apartment and aren’t going to cater to us, how did you persuade them to let us move here?” he asked. </p><p>“Why bother with persuasion? I don’t work for them. Following their orders is optional. Besides, I’m willing to invest in a decent place for us to live and far better security. I’ll show you the features if you’re feeling up to it.”</p><p>Security features? Beyond that bank vault of a door? Alex furrowed his eyebrows. “Is this one of those mobster apartments or something?”</p><p>Yassen snorted. “This building caters to wealthy business people from abroad and the occasional rich expat. The security is fine, but I doubt whoever patrols the property is even armed.” He stood and held out his arm to help Alex to his feet. “Come. I’ll show you. The walk will be good for you.”</p><p>Hobbling somewhat awkwardly, Alex let Yassen guide him through the living room and into the side hallway he’d spotted earlier that ran past the kitchen. True to his suspicions, the first two doors opened to show a bathroom and a pantry respectively. Beyond those doors were three more standing open: one to a master bedroom, one to a smaller bedroom across from it, and the last to a small study located between the two. </p><p>Yassen led him into the study and eased him into the desk chair, tapping sharply at the keyboard. “Did you notice the cameras when we came in?”</p><p>Alex squinted. “Cameras?”</p><p>“I’ll assume that’s a no. There’s three by the front door. Two on the exterior,” Yassen said, clicking on a small window. It expanded, showing them the current empty hallway immediately outside the entrance to their apartment. “One is angled to see down the exterior hall and the other is set to clearly capture anyone who comes to the door. The interior camera is for the entrance.”</p><p>“Are there any others?” Alex asked, glancing around the study. </p><p>Surely there wouldn’t be a camera in every room? Alex wasn’t exactly shy, but… </p><p>“Of course not. Though there is an entrance log you should be aware of.” Yassen pulled up another screen, seemingly branching from another window in the same security program. “The cameras are always on, but every time the front door code is activated and the door opens, it takes an image of them and logs the time. Same for ringing the doorbell.”</p><p>Alex studied the screen. “Is that everything? No laser turrets or false floors that drop intruders into a pit of lava?”</p><p>Yassen rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a supervillain lair, little Alex. Apart from the cameras, doors, and the alarm system, all you need to know is that this door--” Yassen stood and pushed the study door shut. Alex realized abruptly that it was quite a bit thicker than it seemed, at least four inches in depth, but moved so smoothly it was as though it were weightless. “--is as heavily reinforced as the entrance, but is completely mechanical. No codes, no overrides. You can’t unlock it except from the inside. If anyone breaches the front door, this is the next safest place to fall back to.”</p><p>“You mean if we get attacked.”</p><p>“It’s unlikely,” Yassen pointed out. “But I like to be cautious. To some extent, we will be recognizable in Moscow. If word gets back to MI6 that I’m working with the mafia, and it’s almost certainly going to eventually, we may see some trouble. They also might elect to leave us alone entirely, but they have proven themselves tenacious and inconvenient. It’s better to have a panic room than not.”</p><p>Alex stiffened. “What do you mean they’ll find out where we are? How is that okay?”</p><p>Yassen shook his head. “I told you. We’re gridlocked. Russia doesn’t extradite as a general rule, so even if they trump up some charges, it won’t help them any. If the Royal and General wants to use your custody papers to pursue your return in court, Vankin will stall until you are at least eighteen. The Estrov case should take at least that long. We will have plenty of time to figure out our next move. Should they decide to pester us in person--” Yassen gestured at the camera feeds filling the screens “--they shall have a tricky time of it while we shall have evidence that they were operating on foreign soil. Often, the best defense is not impenetrable armor, little Alex; you must simply make yourself too costly to bother.”</p><p>Compulsively, Alex reached up a digit to chew on a nail. He blinked as Yassen swatted his hand from his face. “What if they approach me or try to extract me when I’m not here? I can’t just hide inside all day.”</p><p>Yassen shook his head. “I’ll sort it in advance. Where there are wealthy people, there are paranoid parents fearing kidnappings. There are many private schools in and around Moscow. Certainly some will have acceptable security. As for transit, if I have to escort you to school myself, I will. We will not be easy targets and once you are well, we can disappear again if we need to.”</p><p>Alex mulled that over, half starting to rub at his hip near his stitches before he caught himself. Yassen’s hand twitched, half prepared for another absent swat. </p><p>At any rate, things seemed relatively secure… temporarily. This was the first Yassen had mentioned of the odds that MI6 found them were more of an eventuality than a distantly threatening possibility, but the man didn’t seem particularly troubled by that. Maybe the gridlock would be as effective as he said. Maybe. Alex couldn’t bring himself to trust it, but maybe he wouldn't have to. In a week his stitches would come out and in a few months he should be cleared for sports again if he was good about his recovery instructions. They could easily go back on the run… </p><p>Provided this deal with Scorpia, the mafia, and the SVR didn’t make them even bigger targets. </p><p>Alex felt his stomach clench. Yassen would have never had to make this deal if it weren’t for Alex getting himself shot. While Yassen hadn’t said it outright, Alex also suspected that Yassen was taking the best opportunity to shove him back into school like he’d always said he would. As much as he appreciated the medical attention and promise of an education, he couldn’t help but feel like his stupid, never ending needs were a leak in Yassen’s life; slowly draining the man’s resevoirs until one day he was only an empty, hollow shell and Alex could collapse under the weight of his own problems like he should have been left to a long time ago.</p><p>“Hm,” Yassen said. He spun the office chair away from the desk so that Alex would have to face him completely. His voice had been neutral, but Alex could sense something a touch resigned tugging at his features. “You have that look again. What are you needlessly blaming yourself for this time?”</p><p>“I don’t have a look,” Alex countered, a little stung that Yassen had guessed his thoughts on the first try. He wasn’t that easy to read! Alex was <em> very </em> discreet. Inscrutable. When Yassen didn’t answer, clearly waiting for Alex to speak, he sighed. “Okay. Maybe a little. It’s just… I’ve made a load of problems for us both.”</p><p>Yassen shrugged and sat in a straight backed chair that had been pushed against the window. “I have a load of solutions.”</p><p>“Yeah, but…” Alex glanced around. “Mine keep getting bigger.”</p><p>Yassen actually laughed. “Oh, I see. All that work to not say it’s a money thing. I keep forgetting how incredibly British you are.”</p><p>Alex glared and folded his arms. “It’s not that. You’ve had to make all these deals and deal with all this stuff about your childhood and we just got here. I know my luck. You’ve seen it. Tell me it’s not going to get worse from here.” He felt himself color. “And, okay, it’s also a money thing.”</p><p>Yassen snorted. “I have plenty of that. Most of what I was paid by Scorpia is still untouched-- not counting side work and favors for various clients. I never took more than a week off at a time between jobs, unless I was injured. That’s almost fifteen years of high-risk pay. Money is not an issue, Alex.”</p><p>Alex chewed on his lip. Maybe Yassen didn’t mind spending it, but that wasn’t the point, not entirely. He’d made dozens of moral compromises since, well, since working for MI6, but he’d made about as many since he’d left prison with Yassen. Spending what amounted to blood money on fancy apartments and private schools didn’t sit right with him. Not that he had much more faith in how the rest of the world made their money; he’d met enough crazed businessmen and terrorists to know better than to assume that even the majority was honestly acquired. He winced just thinking about it. With a grimace, he shelved the thought abruptly in the category of ‘try very hard not to think about it’. </p><p>He rubbed his stitches. Percocet would be really, really nice right now.</p><p>Smacking Alex’s hand slightly away, Yassen pressed on, seeing that Alex wasn’t of a mind to respond just yet. “As for the many deals I’ve brokered…” He shrugged. “I’ve done many before this. Since I doubt I would have successfully retired for long anyway, it was inevitable I begin working with some of these groups, at least tangentially. It is nothing new, save for the Estrov business.”</p><p>“About that,” Alex said, meeting his eyes. “You said you’d explain.”</p><p>Yassen grimaced and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He didn’t pull them out however. “That is a much longer conversation, better suited for another time. Let’s finish getting settled into our present before we worry too much about the past.”</p><p>“Is how you met Dima part of that too?”</p><p>Yassen tilted his head side to side. “They’re related.”</p><p>“And why you have a different name now?”</p><p>“You’re correct.” Yassen stood and offered Alex his arm, almost forcibly leveraging him out of his chair in a not-so-subtle shift away from Alex’s almost endless well of questions. “It’s getting late and we should order something for dinner. Are you in any pain?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t say no to a percocet,” Alex told him, a little dryly as Yassen steered him to the door. His lack of an answer was clear enough. Alex sighed. “One last thing, though.”</p><p>Yassen sighed. “Yes?”</p><p>“Why do you have a flashlight?” Alex said, bracing against the door frame just long enough to flex out his hip.</p><p>Yassen started. “That’s right. I’ve never showed you how to manually sweep for surveillance, have I? It was never necessary when we picked temporary hotel rooms at random. It’s a UV flashlight. If you shine it at the floors and walls, you can see a glimmer of camera lenses.”</p><p>Alex snorted. “You can just ask me, you know. Smithers’ iPod is probably better at spotting them anyway.”</p><p>Yassen tilted his head at him to acknowledge his point as they shuffled down the hallway to the living room. “Perhaps. I should still show you how to do it the low tech way.” He deposited Alex on the white couch. </p><p>Despite it’s harsh, aesthetic lines, it was actually quite plush and comfy. Alex half sank into it like a giant marshmallow. </p><p>“Do you have any opinions on food?” Yassen asked, grabbing a silver cordless phone off the counter.</p><p>“Not really.” </p><p>He heard rather than saw a number of pamplets being shuffled across the counters before Yassen sighed. “That’s fortunate. Most of this seems to be Russian food.”</p><p>Alex flipped onto his back and shrugged up at the ceiling. “I liked the kasha.”</p><p>Yassen snorted. “I wouldn’t necessarily call that authentic, little Alex.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” When Yassen declined to answer right away, Alex sat up to actually look at him. There had been something about the way Yassen had said it… It was the closest the man ever got to sounding mischievous. “What was wrong with it?”</p><p>The man gave a just-a-little-too-casual shrug, eyes glued on the colorful pamphlets spread before him. He pulled one closer than the others, studying the fine print. “Nothing was wrong with it. It just isn’t how kasha is typically made… for adults.”</p><p>Alex maintained his outraged silence for all of thirty seconds before he turned his flat look on the amused assassin in the kitchen. “He essentially ordered me pancakes with a smiley face made of fruit, didn’t he?” Alex glowered when Yassen’s silence essentially confirmed it. “Fucking hell, I don’t look <em> that </em>young.”</p><p>Yassen chuckled. “At least he didn’t hand you a children’s menu.”</p><p>Sulking, Alex spotted a remote tucked behind a glass and grass-ball centerpiece on the coffee table. He snatched it up and started hitting buttons. The flatscreen across from him filled with light. He flicked through the channels, grinning as he alighted on several familiar choices. </p><p>“Absolutely not,” Yassen said, glancing up just in time to see Alex change the channel. “We’re not watching that stupid Kardashian show again.”</p><p>Alex scowled and reopened the channel list. “The Real World?”</p><p>“I’ll let you talk me down to Survivor.” Yassen flipped one of the pamphlets over with a sigh and began dialing a number. He pressed the phone to his ear a second later. “After the news.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Monday, everyone! Technically, it's still Monday somewhere.... right? (Thanks, Hawaii!) As always, I love hearing your thoughts, whether they be criticisms or just a note about what you like. Both are equally helpful, so never fear!</p><p>Otherwise, I hope everyone is doing well and staying safe. Don't forget to hydrate! And wear sunscreen. And floss. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A week later, Yassen folded his arms, careful not to bump the doctor’s elbow as his practiced hand plucked free suture after suture. A neat little pile was forming on the small metal tray set to the side of the coffee table, the tiny white remnants stained pink. So far as Yassen could see, the hip’s flesh was still raw and red around the scarred tissue, but otherwise intact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex winced with every fresh snip, tensing as he refrained from wiggling in his half prone position on the couch. The boy had done it twice, involuntarily from what Yassen could tell, and gotten reprimanded by the both of them. “How much longer? It itches,” he huffed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will take longer if you keep moving, Sasha.” Dr. Denosovich gave him a stern look. “But not much more. There are only two left, thank god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about his tone tripped Yassen’s instincts. “Is there something atypical about them?” he asked the man in Russian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the privately contracted doctor had gone to school in New York and thus possessed near perfect English, Yassen saw no reason to share his every suspicion with Alex. The benefits of being paranoid without actually being delusional meant that he felt little distress when many of his inklings turned out to be nothing. With Alex’s mental state as it was, he didn’t want to subject the boy to the emotional whiplash of every cautionary pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Denosovich gave a short shake of his head, shifting his tweezers in his hand as though to flex out a cramp. “It is only a small problem. The skin has begun to grow over the stitches. These should have been removed sooner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought we were on schedule,” Yassen responded. “His surgery was a week and a half ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A brief flicker of doubt swept over the doctor’s face as he worked the scissors around the visible edge of the last stitch and made his snip. It was carefully buried beneath a layer of professionalism, lest Yassen bristle. He was tempted, given the patronizing glance the doctor gave him. “Perhaps he is healing quickly then. What does his physical therapist say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you not read his reports?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do not share information, as we are employed by different practices. I simply know that he has one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen did not doubt that. It seemed that the honeymoon phase was well over. Providing Alex with adequate medical care was to the letter of what the SVR had promised, though it was becoming clearer and clearer that said medical care was an afterthought meant only to keep Yassen happy. How irritating. Alex’s health was intricate enough without Yassen having to second guess the knowledge of every practitioner who treated him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was better this way. More discreet. If the SVR didn’t particularly care about Alex’s health beyond placating their star witness, they might not bother to keep records beyond basic proof that they complied with the agreement. Receipts rather than full reports, one sentence summaries rather than care charts. It was likely the case, since Denosovich had been told about that level of information; it would have been more practical to fill the doctor in more thoroughly, so Yassen took that as an implication of how much data the SVR kept on hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or perhaps not. Yassen supposed there was fairly little harm if the SVR was more thorough than he gave them credit for, but frankly, Yassen was sick of the scrutiny. As inconvenient as the clearly uncoordinated care was, the less information there was available about Alex’s health, the better: it would reduce the boy’s exposure in the SVR’s records, and thus, by extension, Yassen’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath. “His exercises are coming along fine. The muscles around his hip are repairing themselves to the therapist’s satisfaction and he has followed the regimen, despite--” and for this he switched abruptly to English “--him </span>
  <em>
    <span>not using his cane as instructed.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t need it.” Alex scowled as the last stitch was plucked free, at which point he rolled away from both men and rubbed at his hip. “Am I cleared for school yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor nodded and set about disinfecting his small series of instruments. “You may resume school in one week, provided you do not participate in any athletics and remember to use your cane. My office will provide you with an exemption note within the next three days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brilliant.” Alex awkwardly dragged himself off the couch and to his feet. His gait had a noticeable limp, but at least he more or less unimpeded in his daily needs. They’d even been able to take a couple of short walks down the street to get takeaway the last two nights, albeit with lots of rests. His wheelchair rested in the entrance hall closet, folded and untouched for three days. “When can I do sport again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor pursed his lips and gave a shrug, crumpling a used alcohol pad and shoving it into a small medical waste disposal bag he pulled from the depths of his satchel. “It depends, but I advise you to give yourself at least four months. You are young, but you do not want to have lasting bone damage. Start with low impact activities and work your way up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Alex said, in a tone that left no doubt in Yassen’s mind that he would ignore that advice as soon as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced. That would be a fun problem. Inevitably. He turned back to the doctor. “Are there any more care instructions? I assume he can be less careful when showering now that the sutures are no longer a concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor nodded, without looking up from his work. “Nothing new, certainly. Just follow your physical therapist’s recommendations. I don’t see any complications to your hip or signs of infection. Just go slow, be cautious with your health, and within a few weeks you should be back to almost normal functioning. I warn you, though: do not overdo it, even if it is tempting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Excuse me, doctor.” Alex shrugged and began shuffling off, clearly intent on the closest bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cane,” Yassen snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just right there,” Alex grumbled, jerking a hand at the restroom before returning briefly to snatch up the wine red metal thing under Yassen’s pointed look. He begrudgingly used it to even out his gait. “There. Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen turned back to the doctor. “When is his next follow up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor shook his head as he finished packing away his things, meeting Yassen’s eyes as the door to the loo shut behind them. “I was told not to schedule one unless I noticed any issues. All things considered, he is healing extremely well. I recommend an x-ray in a few months to confirm his bones have recovered, but it’s precautionary. Likely unnecessary. Just let his body set the pace.” He hesitated, before reaching into his case and pulling out three white pill bottles. The labels seemed unusually plain, without any hint of patient information; only the name of the drug, dosage, and warnings remained. “I was told to give you these and to refill at your request, no questions asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen turned them in his hand. The first two were Xanax and oxycodone, as expected, but the last one was haloperidol; the main drug that had left Alex a near sleepwalker shambling along the Gibraltar prison’s garden paths. It seemed that after Alex’s last temper tantrum, Vankin still wanted to err on the side of drugging problematic Alex’s behaviors away. “I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Denosovich gripped his bag, turned towards the door and swallowed. “To be clear,” he said, switching back to Russian abruptly as he flicked a glance at the still closed door Alex had disappeared through. “Those painkiller doses are almost certainly too large for his discomfort levels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Yassen said, voice heavier than he intended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I tried to suggest alternative medications, I was told to focus on his hip injury. To not ask questions. If they wish for me to continue treating him for his other health issues, I was told it would be determined weeks from now at the soonest. I think it unlikely they will, since these chemicals imply the need for specialized treatment.” The doctor inhaled slowly, clearly taking measure of Yassen. The assassin didn’t blame him. Based on his shifting, tight body language, the doctor knew he was disobeying orders by mentioning it at all. “Even so, I feel compelled to inform you of the risks of mixing these medications, especially in a patient so underweight. All of them have serious compatibility issues with each other. Extremely serious, well documented issues. Please use them in as small and as separate doses as possible.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unsurprising. The doctor at the Grand Canyon had said much the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By complications, you mean he might stop breathing and pass out, yes?” Yassen asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Correct.” With another furtive glance, the doctor reached into his bag and pulled out a few small white boxes, about the size of a carton of toothpaste. Yassen recognized the little nasal sprays immediately even though this writing was in cyrillic. He’d bought a similar one before, having left it in Oakris. According to his previous research, it could halt an opioid overdose immediately. “Do you know how to use these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve looked into it before,” Yassen admitted, taking the offered boxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. These will buy time to get him to a hospital. I hope you never have to use them, though,” the doctor said. With a final, somewhat curt nod, Denosovich handed Yassen his card and showed himself out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A minute or so later, Alex returned to the room and glanced around. Seeing that the doctor had left, he approached the pill bottles that Yassen had lined up on the counter for him to inspect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haloperidol?” he demanded, shaking the bottle. “Why does he think I need that?” His scowl slid off his face, replaced by a tightening of his shoulders. “I didn’t…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have any seizures,” Yassen assured him, taking the bottle and pointedly hucking it in the trash bin. “Vankin’s doing, not the doctor’s. He’s simply following orders.” He glanced at his watch with a scowl. It was already dark out. The appointment had only run over slightly, but Yassen found himself itching to get going, even though he knew he had just over an hour beyond his scheduled travel time to make his way across the heart of the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight the contract would be signed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we going to do when I go back to school?” Alex asked, turning another bottle in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still hold all my doses,” Alex pointed out, setting the bottle down with only a trace of reluctance. The painkillers. Yassen had to squelch a fresh surge of frustration seeing how Alex’s fingers lingered against the plastic. “The school day lasts more than four hours, I assume. What will we do when I go to school?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t even want to think about that now; ahead of him this evening waited the formal signing of a contract that would guarantee their safety from Scorpia for the foreseeable future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d called Dima twice since their initial reunion in the airport a week ago. Both times, the mafia man had been cheerful and teasing, but hadn’t sought to pester him as much as he had with an audience watching. Thankfully, Yassen had managed to keep both conversations short and to the point: discussing the needs and requirements that the mafia had of Scorpia’s services on a practical level, determining what sort of workload Yassen should expect, and even touching on how often Yassen would have to make an appearance at Dima’s downtown offices as a translator. They’d even ironed out an understanding, suggested by Dima, that neither mention Yassen’s dealings with the SVR to his father in law. It wouldn’t be relevant, really, and Scorpia’s silence could be counted on since they wanted the contract signed without additional delay. So long as Vankin remained discrete, this tower of cards might just hold long enough to make Yassen’s gamble worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So many details to keep track of, and despite them, Alex’s opioid addiction loomed over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hadn’t worried as much about that as he should have in the last two weeks, perhaps. With Alex’s mobility fairly limited, the boy couldn’t sneak pills or run off to steal his next high without Yassen’s notice so he’d given the issue less attention. That being said, the contract killer had certainly done his best to keep Alex on consistent mild doses despite what occasional extra his injuries required. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just because Alex’s current usage couldn’t escalate didn’t mean now was the time to detox him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when would that come up? On the run, Yassen had always assumed he’d find a clinic or a specialist to dump the boy’s problems on and demand a comprehensive treatment plan. He’d been prepared to consult several practitioners if that was what it took. The SVR’s disjointed medical care made it next to impossible to gauge when that transition should occur. There was no one to constantly monitor the boy overall and say when was the best time to address each deferred issue. Timing would be important: Sokolov had worked hard to get caught up on Alex’s meandering health history with what little time he’d had, on top of his recent injuries, but even he admitted it was touch and go to decide in what order the rest should be handled. They’d both been in agreement that the life threatening injuries should come first, followed by additional recovery time, before psychiatric care should begin in earnest to address the lingering hallucinations and emotional issues that plagued the boy. The very physically demanding drug rehabilitation treatment was a nebulous factor to be addressed last most likely, unless methadone seemed more appropriate to wean him off in tandem with his other issues. Possibly followed by steroids if Alex failed to resume growing. Or steroids before that, perhaps. And Yassen still wanted to get a pulse on that brain damage potential.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was such a mess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen realized the boy was still waiting for an answer. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you can carry your own doses for the school day. You don’t have as many memory problems anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Yassen wanted Alex carrying </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> amount of opiates on him, but perhaps it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps he shouldn’t try to help it, either. Since they’d arrived, the teen had required near constant assistance to perform even basic tasks, but with Alex’s returning mobility, Yassen found his mind drifting to his conversation with Briar about encouraging independence. It might be time to let Alex resume making his own dubious medical decisions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However loath Yassen was to permit it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s expression shuttered. “That’s true. Should I just take charge of all of my doses myself then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say that.” Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why was Alex looking so unhappy now? Perhaps Yassen had implied that he didn’t trust Alex to take them properly somehow. The accusation was partially true: Yassen might be more comfortable trusting him with a few pills, but unfettered access would be a disaster in the face of even a mild upset. The teen’s self-control was as impressive as it was wildly inconsistent and Yassen didn’t want to actually have to use the Narcan. “Even if you carry it on you for school, I want you to tell me what you take as soon as you take it. Text me every time. No exceptions. You know where your phone is, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy jerked his head towards his bedroom. “It’s charging. What?” he asked, spotting Yassen’s look. “I don’t use it, so I haven’t been charging it every night. I forgot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep it with you. Charge it on time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled at his feet. “Alright. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen tried not to groan. At least on the road, they’d been distracted by the changing landscape. Little within the apartment changed and the boy was really starting to grate on his nerves. Honesetly, Yassen was half looking forward to the meeting if only to get out of another night of watching wealthy Americans with the personalities of overindulged shih tzus fail to navigate simple problems brought on by their poor life choices, all under terrible stage lighting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it nearly done?” Yassen asked, summoning his patience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably. I put it on an hour ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go get it then,” Yassen said. “I’m going out and I might not be back until late. You need to be able to call me if there’s a problem.” Folding his arms, he gave Alex a pointed look until the boy actually started moving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Listened to the metallic clack of the cane tapping against the hardwood as Alex made his way to his bedroom. Glanced back at the medications sitting out of the counter. Considered adding that to the last few pills remaining in his jacket pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitated. While Alex was obviously still dependent on the opiates for relief, he hadn’t seriously demanded any extra despite their mutual boredom over the last few days. Hadn’t grumbled about not getting high except in passing as he struggled with the Cyrillic alphabet drills Yassen had demanded of him. The hallucinations had grown a lot more mild since the hospital, certainly: Alex seemed to regard them as more upsetting and annoying than anything else, but that could be for lack of flight options. While he wasn’t stupid enough to hope that Alex had somehow magically detoxed without realizing it, perhaps his time in hospital had weaned him down a level or two in terms of the voracity of his addiction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only Yassen dared to risk such optimism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At any rate, Alex was right about school. The SVR might be able to dissuade a private, lone doctor from asking too many questions, but Yassen doubted a series of school nurses would cheerfully dispense an amount of potentially lethal painkillers typically reserved for recent amputees and cancer patients without pause (if only for liability’s sake). Unless Yassen wanted to take the time to hand-deliver the boy’s doses two or three times a day to the school, it made far more sense for Alex to hold his own medication until he needed it. It was certainly the most discreet option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pinched the bridge of his nose, listening to the cane taps change direction as Alex successfully retrieved his phone. The bottles would stay on the counter for now. Yassen could make up his mind after the contract was signed.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY, EVERYONE! Guess who remembered to post this week with no fuss and no muss? This gal!</p><p>As always, comments are poured over and adored, and often read multiple times. Your doubtful silence is wholeheartedly justified: I too bemoan my terrible reply time (what's it been? At least four months? Five? Six?). Anyhow, I promise I read them and that you are not, technically, shouting into a void.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex stared out the window across from his bed. It was wide, letting in plenty of natural sunlight during the afternoon unless covered by it’s folding set of white fabric blinds. Those had been drawn earlier but he was too apathetic to shut them now. From this angle, all he could see was the stone and metal exterior of the flats across the street, their interior lights glowing gold against the relative darkness of the downtown night. A distant red light flickered beyond, a steady shooting star only if the many flights circling the city could claim a technicality. If he listened carefully, he might convince himself that he could hear the sounds of city life: of the bustle of traffic, of shovels scraping the snow covered street below, of people calling to each other. He couldn’t, unless he cracked the window to let in the frigid winter air that smelled a little bit of exhaust. Unlike the last apartment they’d been to, the soundproofing here was excellent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room itself was simple, but comfortable. His bed was a full sized thing with a squishy mattress he’d grown quite fond of, set apart from the wall by a dove gray fabric covered headboard. There was a strip of recessed lighting on the wall above that was separately controlled from the one that lit the main area of his small room. The little silver pendant lights attached to his abstract metal bedside tables seemed like overkill, as did the arching floor lamp that hung over his small black writing desk beside the entertainment center opposite his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So many light sources to help him read all of the books he didn’t want to bother with. At least he had his own private bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flopped onto his back. He was. So. Bored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recovering had always been a small nightmare for him, even if he’d reluctantly gotten used to it the longer he’d been stuck dealing with MI6. Resting his body usually required he rest his mind, if only because he was stuck in St. Dominic’s with only so many sources of stimulation. Even that hadn’t been as bad when he’d had a small army of nurses to chat with once visiting hours were over and Tom and Jack were sent home. Jack would always return the instant they began again to fuss over him and try to stay upbeat about his recovery, whereas Tom would walk in, tell him he looked like he’d lost a fight with a trash compactor, and then proceed to eat half of the grapes he brought him. It was the thought that counted, his friend would always insist when Alex indignantly demanded at least a handful before--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rammed his palms against his eye sockets.</span>
  <em>
    <span> No. Don’t think about it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The loneliness flooded him anyway. It had been there for a long time, held at bay between graffitied rest stops, mothball smelling motel rooms, and hastily swallowed cannabis gummies. His chest actually ached with it sometimes, when he wasn’t able to push it back or drown it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dragged in a slow breath. It would be fine. Soon he would be in school, surrounded by people his own age. His Russian wasn’t very good, but Yassen had mentioned something about international schools in the area, so he might not even have to use it to make new friends. Four fluent languages should be plenty. There would be classes and studies and exams to worry about again, not to mention football once he was well enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be fine. Everything would be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, going to school would improve things for Yassen too. His suspicions had only grown since Oakris, though they’d sort of been shoved out of the way with the larger concerns of getting shot. Now that he was on the proper mend, they came flooding back: Yassen was getting tired of taking care of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hollow feeling erupted in his chest, somehow worse than the loneliness filling it only seconds before. Sure, he was sticking around for now but Alex wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t see how Yassen was carefully slicing the threads binding them together, one by one, as he prepared Alex for the eventual unmooring. In Oakris, it had been the removal of the man from their routines, but in Moscow, it was starting again with the pills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t blame him, of course. He was exhausting to look after, and he’d only ever been a placeholder for Yassen’s sense of purpose anyway. A project to keep his mind occupied. Alex believed Too-Drunk-For-His-Own-Good Yassen when he’d said he prefered Alex’s problems to his own, but surely that wasn’t forever. Eventually, the contract killer would have to deal with his own problems whether he liked it or not and then Alex would be a liability more than a distraction. Everytime someone mentioned Estrov, a little voice in the back of Alex’s head wondered if he had inadvertently expedited the process. Yassen obviously didn’t like having to confront these odd remnants of his past-- perhaps that was part of why he was unhappy and wished he could leave. In his current state, that probably meant leaving Alex too, which he suspected the man had already been planning on for a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was so unfair. Alex wanted so badly to get the chance to pay him back, to show him that it hadn’t all been for nothing. If Yassen left him, not only would Alex be on his own in a strange country but he would likely never find the man again, much less be around for when Yassen was old and needed looking after in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little flicker of hope wormed its way through him, almost involuntarily. Maybe Yassen wouldn’t have to leave so soon. Maybe when Alex went to school, it would relieve some of the pressure. Give him a break. It probably wouldn’t be a perfect solution with all of Alex’s other problems that the man had to deal with, but maybe it would buy Alex time to find a way to be less of a drain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex wasn’t selfish enough (yet) to beg Yassen not to go, but maybe if he tried hard enough, he could make it more tolerable for the man to stay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubbed his eyes and sat up, ignoring the full body twinge that accompanied the motion. His shoulder and back fractures were a rapidly dimming collection of bruises, but his hip still offered the occasional teeth-hissing-worthy flare. It could be worse. He glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table and grimaced. The half dozen delivery menus Yassen had left on the counter with plenty of rubles had little appeal, though he supposed eating might give him something to do. Especially since the man himself would be gone, doing something Scopria related that Alex both very much wanted to know the details of and dreaded finding out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring his cane entirely, Alex limped steadily to the kitchen. Ordering would be a little tricky since Alex hadn’t yet mastered listening to Yassen speak at a normal pace and over the phone he wouldn’t be able to supplement sound recognition by reading lips. He supposed he could always run across the street to that Chinese place he and Yassen had eaten at the day before and hoped they remembered--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pill bottles winked at him in the half lighting of the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting his lip, Alex traced the ridges of the twist-top of the oxycodone bottle with the tip of his finger. Retracted his hand. Returned it. Nibbled his nail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had already given him his afternoon dose, but his evening wasn’t due for… he glanced at the clock on the microwave to confirm. Three more hours. Yassen certainly made it sound like he could be out until the wee hours of the morning. That’s why he’d probably left the bottles here instead of taking them with him. So Alex could have his medicine on time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rubbed his hip, unable to quite tear his eyes from the bottle. Maybe he could take his pill a little early. Just one dose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or two.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the 46th floor of the sixth tallest tower in all of Moscow, Yassen stared impassively at Ferri from his seat at the table. Exposed from every angle, only the boardroom’s clear glass walls divided it from the other conference rooms on this level, though at this evening hour the entire floor stood deserted by everyone except high ranking criminals and their security teams. An area beside the table had been cleared of all furniture and a clear plastic tarp had been spread in a neat square, at the center of which kneeled the French identity broker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today’s contract signing would include a demonstration, apparently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen did not allow his expression to so much as flicker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully trimmed caramel colored hair had been knocked askew, trapped in disarray by the drying blood smeared across his face and head. Whatever beating he’d been given had been minimal, all things considered; his eyes weren’t so swollen that he couldn’t clearly see the businessmen seated at the long, oval table in front of him and he still had all his teeth. Despite his relative lucidity, he made no effort to beg for his life, which was impressive given the clear intent behind the tarp and the way his hands had been bound behind his back. His eyes darted swiftly between their faces, though he didn’t focus long on the bratva members. Yassen wasn’t surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pacing man beside the tarp made it exceptionally clear that this was Scorpia business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of all the board members, Jason Shackell intimidated Yassen the least. Not to say that he wasn’t worthy of caution, simply that the manner by which it was inspired was nothing new or particularly hard to navigate. He wasn’t jarringly cruel like Rothman or as unassumingly ruthless as Dr. Three; rather, Jason Shackell was a thug. A smart thug with a head for business and who rewarded his men as much as he punished them then punished his enemies more, but a thug nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Physically, the man wasn’t an obvious threat, though that was common among the original board members due to the rather mundane obligations of age. Dark auburn hair, probably dyed, and clipped tightly into what amounted to a stylish buzz cut, longer on the top than the sides. Muscular without obvious brawn, the man obviously took care to keep himself in shape, despite being at least two decades older than Yassen himself. Likely, he’d had chemical assistance in fighting the march of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shackall spread his hands with a glance at the crystal minimalist clock mounted beyond the head of the table. “Gentlemen, I know the hour is getting late,” he said in perfect Russian. “But I thought it appropriate to arrange for a quick demonstration. Mr. Ferri here is one of our former contractors. Now, I’ll be frank with you-- he is the Stradivari of false identities, the best-- but lately it seems that he has taken to selling his clients’ whereabouts. Of course, Scorpia is not in the habit of tolerating double crossers in any portion of our network. It makes for unpredictable results, no? We expect consistency above all else and we go to great lengths to ensure that every service we utilize does the same, so that we can pass those assurances on to our clients. Mr. Gregorovich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen inclined his head to the board member. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assist me in my demonstration,” Shackall went on, gesturing to the kneeling man. “I thought you might personally enjoy the task, given how his… unreliability has inconvenienced you in the past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Consultancy only’ was off to a great start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen buried his knee-jerk irritation and stood smoothly. The contract had yet to be formally signed, meaning his role had yet to be defined. One small exception was permissible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several good reasons made complying problematic, but those were secondary to proving both his own loyalty in the moment and bolstering Scorpia’s reputation in one move. Killing an independent contractor was a confident move for an agency, especially one with difficulty accessing resources. One that might backfire later, perhaps, but one that would speak volumes about Scorpia’s willingness to step on toes. Vexing as it was, such shows of bravado often worked in the underworld to some extent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that it endeared his new supervisor to him any.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting his eyes slide past Shackall, Yassen took his time as he studied the kneeling man in front of him. “Any preferences or specifications?” he asked, circling the tarp and feeling Dima’s eyes settle on him in particular.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shackall glanced around the room as though looking for opinions and then shrugged when none were presented. The silent bratva leaders had no real skin in the game, watching quietly and attentively as though sitting through an actual spreadsheet presentation. “Consider him a blank canvas. I’ve not yet decided where I’d like his body to be found, but I’d like it to send a message nonetheless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ferri might not speak Russian, but there was a universal language to executions. He met Yassen’s eyes with a wince, though there wasn’t more than a passing amount of hope of assistance. “I halted your transfer. The money should be in your account. I have robbed no one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if that mattered next to betrayal. This demonstration had several layers of meaning, not just for the bratva or for their independent contractors. A reminder for Yassen personally: his own treachery would certainly not be forgotten, much less his willingness to work with the SVR.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Alex needed this contract signed. No more delays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well,” Yassen said, taking a moment to turn his options over. This task fulfilled many purposes besides sending a message, including showing Yassen off. An audition, almost. His physical skill would need to impress as well as his creative problem solving; a bullet in Ferri’s head would mean very little in a room full of killers. Rifling through past jobs for inspiration, he turned to Shackell. “He didn’t happen to have any business cards on him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shackall raised an intrigued eyebrow, but gestured to one of his personal security men. The Scorpia guard strode forward and offered a small gray fabric case. Designed to carry a small tablet, it instead opened to reveal a smartphone, a wallet, and a few pens. The contents of Ferri’s pockets at the time of his abduction, no doubt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen plucked the wallet out, almost lazily rifling through various credit cards until he found what he was looking for-- the crisp white business cards that were blank save for the temporary routing numbers and account info Ferri used to accept payment. With a side glance at the man, Yassen gently pinched the card between his fingertips, feeling the small circuitry in the center. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect,” he said aloud, returning the wallet to case and twirling the card in his hand as he approached Ferri.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Prideful though he was, Ferri could be counted on to make one last dignified effort to bargain for his life. He opened his mouth. Perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn't let him get a word out. In one swift strike, he rammed the card into his mouth with his fist and past his teeth, grabbing the man’s chin with his other hand to interrupt the instinctive attempt to bite him as Yassen pushed the card deeper into his larynx. Ferri got one more gasp out and choked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving the job half done for the sake of being artful would be unprofessional. Yassen drove a brutal elbow into Ferri’s trachea at about where the card was, sending the man flat on his back, and crushing it in one blow. He stood smoothly and rejoined the men seated at the table. Ferri’s dying gags trailed off as the little air in his lungs to carry the sound ran out, though his legs still thrashed weakly against the tarp. Yassen didn’t turn back to check. He’d be dead of asphyxiation in a few minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three mafia men, DIma included, seemed mildly impressed as Yassen returned to the table, though they seemed to lose interest in the dying man just as quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shackall took his seat across from Yassen, drawing their gazes. “Efficient as ever, Yassen,” he said. Despite his words of praise, hard eyes considered the contract killer. Not exactly pleased, though Yassen was quite sure that outcome had ever been on the table. Not that he expected Shackall to do anything to erode their client’s confidence in him. Not in public. “Though I’m not sure how many points to give you for creativity. Crushing his throat is only a step above slitting it. A fairly standard ending for a snitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen offered him a small, bland smile. “There are small tracking chips in his business cards,” he offered, mostly for the benefit of the mafia men. “My blow to his throat cut off his air, yes, but it also pierced the walls with the chip, which is now filling his lungs with blood. In essence, he’s actively choking on his own duplicity.” Yassen nodded towards the stilling body. While it was certainly true, the chip wasn’t nearly large enough for that to kill the man alone, hence the need to actually crush his throat. “My apologies if my methods lack showmanship. As you’ve said, the hour is getting late and more entertaining methods tend to be time consuming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima chuckled and gave him a crooked grin, placing his hand over his heart. “Perhaps I am easy to please, but I thought it was clever.” He turned to the man beside him. “What do you think, Sergey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father in law inclined his head, eyes flicking to Ferri’s convulsing body only briefly. He was a heavyset man beneath his crisply tailored suit and squared spectacles, though most who saw him wouldn’t have guessed that he’d made his way up in the world extorting local business owners for protection and fixing betting pools. “Creativity is not my realm, but the message was adequately sent. Now, if you are quite done, I move that we get on to business, Mr. Shackall. There are one or two provisions I wish to discuss....”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY BELATED MONDAY, EVERYONE!</p><p>Yesterday sort of slipped away from me. Sorry about that-- it was wild. Anyway, as always, comments make my heart soar and I hope everyone is staying safe and drinking water (dehydration is no joke).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ten minutes later, Yassen scribbled his signature without an ounce of fanfare. It was the fifth and final one: above it shone the other members of the room, save for the ever-present security teams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey Kireyev. Igor Pashkov. Dimitry Nikoluv. Jason Shackall. Yassen Gregorovich.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without pause, Yassen set the pen aside and passed the document to Shackell. The Scorpia board member accepted it impassively, tucking it in a black leather folder decorated only by a small silver scorpion. It was the final copy, the last in an identical set to ensure that everyone left the building with every detail agreed to and documented.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shackell stood neatly from his seat at the gleaming table and nodded to his security. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to the rest of the men still seated around the cherry wood oval. “I know it’s been an unusually challenging renegotiation this term--” and here he seemed to barely refrain from giving Yassen an openly aggressive look. “--but I think we will all be pleased with the results. On behalf of Scorpia, we look forward to meeting your needs this term.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey stood just long enough to exchange handshakes, wristwatch gleaming as they clasped hands. “We look forward to seeing those results ourselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you shall. Forgive me for not being able to stay, but my work never sleeps,” Shackall said, offering the other men a scant nod. His personal bodyguard propped open the glass door for him and with a final glance at Yassen, he left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the glass walls, Yassen watched Shackall and his men disappear up the short stairway leading to the roof where Shackell’s helicopter was already waiting there for him to take off immediately; Yassen had noted it’s location when he’d surveyed the entire building. He’d been careful to compile his mental map with the hour he’d had before Shackall had arrived. Trouble was unlikely, but he disliked doing business in buildings with limited escape routes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All six of which he re-counted as Dima’s father in law turned his somewhat severe gaze to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps severe wasn’t the best way to describe it; the man had an air of one waiting with unspoken expectations while hovering on the edge of disappointment. Whatever color his hair had once been, it was iron gray now. “I certainly hope we see those needs fulfilled,” he said. “What’s the status of the Malaga project?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. Either he was testing Yassen or hoping to rattle him in front of the other partners. Another potential irritating consequence of Shackall’s demonstration: the possibility he’d set an expectation of completing work outside of his carefully negotiated terms. With the contract only freshly signed, by explicit definition, Yassen shouldn’t be expected to have arranged for anything prior to this moment. Yassen’s time was one of the many products Scorpia was selling, of course, even if he was technically an independent contractor. In fact, were the situation any less precarious, Scorpia might privately punish him for doing work off the clock-- unauthorized unbillable hours were as useless to them as they were risky, even if they made the client happy. Sergey should know this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A power move, then. One that implied he had less than complete faith in his son-in-law’s choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As per Scorpia policy,” Yassen said without so much as a hint of anxiety. He had no doubt Sergey would detect the faintest trace. “I have not been briefed on the specific details of any projects, both to ensure the security of your information, pending the official signing of the contract, and to protect the value of our services. I am, however, familiar with the going ons in the region. If you would like to fill me in on your specific issue, I could easily give you a preliminary assessment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shifted in his chair, his mind obviously gone in that same direction: this was a signal of doubt and not just of Yassen. His exuberant personality from the airport had been carefully muted throughout the meeting, but had not disappeared entirely.  “The ink is not yet dry, Sergey. Poor Yassen’s going to think we are no fun. Without rest even the horse does not gallop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey’s lips thinned. “A horse that takes a year to sign a contract does not inspire confidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen met Sergey’s gaze impassively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wiry man sitting on Sergey’s other side frowned at Yassen. “What do you mean familiar with the Malaga region?” Igor asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scorpia does business everywhere and I have represented them in that area before. There are many operatives in place who can be called upon immediately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dimitry,” Sergey said at length. “Explain the matter to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Dima was bothered by the use of his full name, he didn’t let on. He turned to Yassen. “Our casino in the area has been subject to investigation. While it continues to operate, we cannot move money through it under such careful scrutiny. Every transaction is evaluated. While our paper trail regarding our dealings is small, there are obvious discrepancies in the amount of business we seem to have suddenly lost. In the meantime, our other operations starve without adequate legitimate cash flow. Additionally, the longer the investigation goes on, the more likely they are to prove our involvement. We have so far managed to conceal our actual ownership and we do not want our name tied to this at any cost.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered this. “Do you have other interests in the area?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Minor. One does not shit where they eat,” Dima snorted. “Hence the need for Scorpia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Yassen said, after a few moments of consideration. “If they have nothing but a suggested discrepancy, your issue in Malaga is a temporary one. It can easily be solved without ties to your interests. A gentle touch is all that it requires.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Igor scoffed. “Our money laundering operation represents a significant amount of offshore income. Gentle is not what we had in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged, his gaze not wavering from Sergey for more than a split second at most. “We will do whatever you wish, but in this specific instance, I would not recommend open aggression. Not only would it beg questions of motivation, many of which could easily lead back to you, but it is likely to be ineffective in the long run. Your issue is not truly the investigative team, it is the chief prosecutor in the Office of Corruption and Organized Crime. The current, Mr. Ibarra, is unfavorable to us, but he is stepping down soon though there has been no formal announcement yet. Our candidate is currently the District Attorney’s favorite for his replacement. When he is instated, the investigation will cease. Your facility will be quickly cleared and reopened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our candidate, Mr. Gregorovich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Santiago has already been compromised by Scorpia. We have used him before on a municipal level with great results. Even if the chief investigator wishes to continue scrutinizing your books, our man can intervene before it goes anywhere concerning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey studied him over the rim of his glasses. “You speak with great confidence about internal politics on the other side of the world. What guarantee do you have that Santiago assumes power before charges are filed? What if your man is passed over for the appointment? What will you do if attention is called to Santiago halting a promising case so early into his appointment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are already many other operatives in the area,” Yassen allowed with an unconcerned shrug. “And many more who can be moved on location, if needed. I personally know several that would be suitable for the task. If Ibarra’s investigation pushes forward before our man is appointed, we can undo the charges through other means. Corruption within his department has already been sowed and the right headline can give the district attorney the push she needs to remove him ahead of schedule. As for the lead investigator, he too can be compromised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Igor folded his arms. “Did you think we had not considered buying him off? It was looked into. He is an annoyingly honest man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he can remain that way,” Yassen countered. “But what of his closest men? A few deaths by overdose, a few indiscretions caught on camera, and even a few whispered accusations can cast doubt on him by proxy. Even if his reputation is somehow unbesmirched, we can make him doubt his entire support system. Paranoia has brought down stronger men. If he cannot be removed, we can persuade him to remove himself. Or we assassinate him outright and pin it on another group. There are several operating in the area, but again, a gentle touch leads to fewer inconvenient questions. Regardless, it will be resolved by the end of next month with the planned appointment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey studied him silently for a long stretch. When Yassen’s expression remained unchanged, he threaded his fingers together. “I do not like it. It is too long. I want my facility opened by the end of the week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t feel an ounce of surprise, though he saw Dima stiffen in his chair. The casino had, by their own admission, been rendered useless for months. Were it really so urgent an issue, they would have signed with another organization rather than wait for Scorpia. This was about Yassen’s competence: he could have assured Sergey beyond a shadow of doubt that Ibarra would be struck by lighting immediately and the man would have deemed it unacceptable, if only to see how he responded. A test. “Very well. We will assassinate the chief outright then. The timing is too convenient to truly look like an accident, but we can prepare a fall man and a motive tied to the Italians operating in the area. You are not the only group he has targeted in his career. Santiago will be assigned and kill the investigation into the casino after the fact, perhaps to shift manpower and resources towards investigating the slaying of a respected public figure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Igor shifted in his seat. “What method of assassination are you proposing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are several that will do,” Yassen said mildly. He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have any requests.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The method is unimportant,” Dima said, giving Igor a look harboring a dash of admonishment, as though the younger man was fooling around. “So long as our connections to the casino remain undiscovered and the money resumes flowing.” He paused and raised an eyebrow, turning back to Yassen. “I’m curious. Do clients often have interesting requests?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer inclined his head. “Some have enjoyed a sense of poetic justice. I once electrocuted a lawyer who’d condemned my client’s brother to the electric chair that same afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima chuckled. “I hope you charged extra for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s just say it was an appreciated touch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well,” Sergey said, glancing at his personal security team and standing. “Arrange for it. Dima, I expect a full recounting on Sunday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, of course.” Dima and Igor both stood as their boss left, though Igor actually followed his uncle into the hallway. He waited until the two men’s security teams had trickled out behind them before muttering, “Little pig-shit bastard. Igor likes to think of himself as an expert tactician since he got a Master’s degree in business. Like that helps any in a world like ours.” He turned back to Yassen and clapped him on the shoulder. “But enough of my complaining. I suppose I can’t persuade you to come get a drink? I own a bar not far from here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outwardly, Yassen allowed himself to relax noticeably as he stood and grabbed his coat, though he was very much aware that he was still performing on a stage. It was safer to assume that Dima’s men would report back to Sergey until he had reason to believe otherwise. “Another time, perhaps. I have many calls to make tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima waved a hand before gathering up his papers and passing them to one of his men. “Perhaps I am the fortunate one tonight. Sergey has given me an assistant Obasschak, so I get to avoid all the annoying work.” He caught Yassen’s sharp glance and rolled his eyes. “Vasily’s overqualified to be my assistant, if I’m being honest with you. A damn miracle worker in Operations, but Sergey’s shoving him into my department to make room for that donkey’s cum stain of a nephew of his. Unfortunate for all involved, except for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded as though he accepted that at face value. The situation between Sergey, Igor, and Dima was more volatile than ideal, evidently, but he’d dealt with worse. “Perhaps we’ll get drinks on a night with less work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And a teenager to get back to, I suppose. I’d like to say he’s probably old enough to look after himself, but I know better. I remember being that age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. That was a little too close to the truth. “In many ways, he’s about as bad as we were,” he admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima chuckled. “Speaking of the boy, how is he doing? I hope his health has improved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced. It wasn’t as though Alex’s health concerns were going to remain secret given their rather... visual nature. Besides, this arrangement would require a certain type of surface level intimacy between him and his childhood friend; the more Dima trusted him, the more this contract with Scorpia would be impenetrable from the outside. It had already led to the man dropping the name Malaga during a previous conversation, an obvious invitation for Yassen to do some research in advance despite not having an official reason to trust him with such sensitive information. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That had paid off mere minutes ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Yassen would need time to sort out the obvious problems concerning Dima’s place within the bratva itself. If he were reading it right, Sergey was in some sort of testing moment with his son-in-law. Considering that he had already promoted him to head of security some time ago, there was no way to interpret this as a good sign-- since this obviously wasn’t an initial evaluation of Dima's fitness as a candidate, this could only be organizational triage. A sudden assistant head usually accompanied shifting responsibilities, like a doctor assessing vitals before isolating an infection for evaluation. The nature of Sergey’s doubts were critically important and would alter Yassen’s approach going forward, but for now, he wanted the time to get a full accounting of the situation he was dealing with before he set about changing it to his advantage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where his old friend fit into that was nebulous, but would likely prove beneficial. Again, Yassen needed to build intimacy if he wanted to be trusted with the unflattering details. Dima already certainly knew the gist of the boy’s spy past, so the boy’s health wouldn’t be a big reveal. Some sharing was in order, but not full exposure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cautious, vague answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know the half of it,” he said. Fortunately, the sincerity in his voice required no acting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than a bullet wound?” Dima raised an eyebrow. “I hope you didn’t take him off his tea again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has many health concerns,” Yassen grumbled. “And a few behavioral. Now the doctor says he is ready to return to school and I find myself pressed to pick one where he will neither be shot at by our enemies nor expelled for acting out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your life has always invited chaos, hasn’t it, soldatik?” Dima mused. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and offered Yassen his pick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It pursues me as though I owe it money. I’ve resigned myself to it.” Yassen plucked one from depths and accepted Dima’s light. He took a slow pull and exhaled a trail of smoke neatly from the corner of his mouth. The nicotine cushioned his senses, leaving almost guilty trails of relief. “Now it is his mobility that concerns me. Not only must I choose a suitable school, but I have to worry about what trouble the little brat can get himself into. He can’t help himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima smacked him lightly on the shoulder, eyes lighting. Yassen very carefully suppressed the reflexive twitch that elicited. “Enroll him in Goldstone with my children! My oldest can show him around. Not only do they teach mainly in English, but he’ll already have someone he knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen tapped his cigarette to the side, careful not to flick ash on his childhood friend’s suit. “How would you rate the security?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good. Lots of high rank families use the school. He won’t be the only mafia brat in those walls apart from my children, I assure you and it is considered collective neutral territory. Plus--” here Dima gave him a pointed look, nudging him with his elbow. “--the headmaster is so very easy to bribe. So easy. I’ve done it at least three times. It’s almost impossible to get expelled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sounds perfect.” Goldstone Academy had already been in his top three options given its location and advertised security, but with the added benefits of clear-cut corruption and the chance to embed Alex with Dima’s children, he was willing to make the snap decision. “Their maths and physics programs are good, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some of the best. They’ve won awards-- of which at least half are legitimate.” Dima held open the door for him as they left the conference room.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY! Guess who remembered to update on time? This dork. </p><p>Hope everyone is staying safe! (And drinking water. And flossing. And wearing sunblock.) (I might be channeling some Mum!Yassen! today.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex watched the car lights shift and change along the road below with rapt attention. They were shapes and colors to him mostly, robbed of their depth partially by the distance and partially from the light snow that had begun to fall sometime in the last half hour. Cold bit into his fingers where they curled around the frigid balcony railing, but it was a distant pain and easy to ignore in the rush of euphoria. Snow had already built up atop the chairs that would no doubt be pleasant to sit in when spring finally came, a foot high in some places and icy beneath. Fortunately for him, Yassen’s frequent smoke breaks had necessitated a clearing of a small path.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cradled on both sides in the concave indentation of snow, Alex kneeled directly on the balcony with his naked arms stretched above him. His thin pajamas were no match for the loose powder snow and had already soaked through. If the gaps between the bars had allowed, he would have dangled his legs through them to help him spread into this dark, sparkly night; to let his bare feet somehow reach for the bustle of people and cars and the sheer sensation of people going places and become one with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a bit like the vast where Jack was now. The city was kind of like an ocean, the bounce of light across shining auto paint winking like scales here and there. In the vast, everything was connected and smashed together in the here and the now, without meaningful separation or loneliness or dread or cold or--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere behind him, he heard a door slam shut. “Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, good. Yassen was back. Alex turned to face him and grinned through the open glass door leading into the living room. “Come see,” he called.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Yassen asked him, halting suddenly before striding quickly to the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex agreed with his hurry: he could spend his whole life looking at this and never get tired of it. He turned back and pointed, though his fingers took awhile before they shakily cooperated. “The city. It’s so big and together and all wrapped up and full of fish! Just like where Jack lives now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking--?” Yassen broke off, eyes narrowing on his fingers. Alex realized for the first time that they’d turned blue along the edges. “How long have you been out here like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the wrong question, of course. The better question would have been how long Alex </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be out here. “Forever,” he answered firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get inside. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Yassen, the ocean--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was moving, though it took him a split second to realize that Yassen had clamped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. Everything was still fuzzy and moved faster than Alex could properly understand. Alex staggered backwards to his feet and tried to turn around, intent on returning to his spot by the railing, but the older man wasn’t having it. He grabbed Alex around the middle and half lifted, half dragged him back into the apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it, Yassen, you didn’t even see--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was looking at the TV suddenly. It took him all of a split second to register the memory of a hand moving upside his face. Yassen had smacked him, though not particularly hard. It didn’t hurt. Then again, nothing really hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was Yassen angry with him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s voice was flat. “How many did you take?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked down at his feet (those were blue-ish too), chewing on his lip and trying to talk his tears ducts into taking the night off. They seemed to consider the proposal, but readied themselves with unshed moisture, as though unwilling to commit to either course of action. “Two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d thought it was the perfect amount a moment ago, but Yassen was obviously unhappy, so it was probably too much and Alex had screwed it up again. It wasn’t like last time, though, when he’d taken so much he couldn’t actually see or sit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> How had he screwed up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small lance of regret stabbed at him, but the euphoric confusion swirled back into him to fill the empty feeling as quickly as it had come. All things considered, he still felt pretty good. “It’s okay, Yassen. Everything’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Yassen shut his eyes, his entire body tensing for a split second before he abruptly wrapped an arm around Alex’s shoulders only to drag him through the living room. “It’s fine. Just-- Just get inside and warm up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More stumbling before Alex realized they were going into the hallway bathroom. Why? He didn’t need to use the loo-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen dropped him onto the closed toilet lid. He sat without complaining, dimly registering the sound of running water. Were they going to dye his hair again?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poor Yassen. Alex couldn’t see him particularly well, but he was fairly certain that he was upset. There seemed no point in it considering how much happy-warm-safe Alex could still feel drifting around, despite the sudden shift in his evening. Plenty to share. His hands didn't want to cooperate with him very much right now, but he did his best to run his fingers through Yassen’s short hair when the man stooped to drag him fully clothed under the spray. It had always made him feel better when Jack had done it, even when he was grown enough to feel embarrassed by it too. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s look was indecipherable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took him a minute to realize his mistake. Those were Jacks’ comfort words. Yassen had his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Alex said instead. “Everything’s fine now. I’ll handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time passed strangely, with Alex only coming in and out for stretches of it. Sleepiness tugged at him. He wasn’t sure when he transitioned from standing in the shower to laying back in the bath, watching his thin gray pajama bottoms balloon and trail in the steaming water. His fingers and toes were pinker. That was nice. More painful, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he hurt himself? Where was Yassen? He twisted, suddenly realizing how heavy he felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m right here,” Yassen answered, before Alex could say anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took Alex another second to focus his eyes enough to take in Yassen sitting on the floor beside the tub, legs stretched out in front of himself on the off white stone tile, back propped up against the wall while he stared out at nothing. Eyes tight, face lined. He seemed tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Alex mumbled, turning onto his side and shutting his eyes. His overgrown hair was dripping water onto his forehead, but he didn’t move it out of his eyes. Too much effort. “I thought you’d gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You keep asking. I haven’t left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Alex opened his eyes and reached his fingers over the edge of the ceramic. “Hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see it. Keep it in the water, Alex. You’re not up to temperature yet.” Without bothering to move from his position, Yassen extended his arm to grab Alex’s wrist and return it to the warmth of the tub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meant yours.” Alex didn’t bother fighting the relocation of his appendage, but before Yassen’s own could retract, he grabbed it and plopped it atop his head. Streams of water vacated his hair in response. “There. Now I won’t lose track of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More time passed in that strange in and out way. Alex wondered if he’d properly fallen asleep for any of it, though he doubted it since he couldn’t exactly recall waking. Yassen’s hand remained on his head, so far as he knew, with Alex only reaching up once or twice to confirm that the weight was actually still there from time to time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” Alex said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked why you were on the balcony.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted. “Told you. Was looking at the city-ocean”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hesitated. “Like the one Jack lives in now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good. Yassen had been listening to him, even if he hadn’t seen. He shut his eyes again. Maybe they’d look at it again together some other time. He was too tired right now. “That’s right, ‘cept her ocean is warm. And vast. And everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The killer was quiet for a long minute. “Were you trying to… go see her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Alex shifted in the tub. His wet cotton shirt might as well have been latex with as hard it was to peel away from his inflamed hip, but weighed as much as lead. “It’d make her sad. She was sad to think I’d join her so soon, last time.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Right.” There was something… extra</span> <em><span>nothing</span></em> <span>about Yassens’ voice now. Like the taste of gelatin. Or those rice cakes the man kept insisting were healthy. “Remind me of when she told you that?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“When I got shot,” Alex said, rubbing his hip beneath the water. His skin was starting to wrinkle, but the tips of his fingers still felt cold to the rest of his flesh. “Before my parents visited again. They only come when I’m shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. The sniper. They came to hold your hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanted to. Too heavy that time.” That reminded him. His eyes didn’t want to open, so Alex quickly double checked that Yassen’s hand was still anchoring the man beside him by squeezing it. It was reassuringly corporeal. “Got Mum hugs this time. Just as good as Jack hugs. Dad said you’re doing great. Important to him I not forget to tell you that you’re doing great. Did I forget to say? I forget seeing them sometimes. It’s easier to remember when I’m falling asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you remembered. It sounded like a nice dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snickered. “It wasn’t a dream, Yassen. They’re dead now, not imaginary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, little Alex.” The words came out of him like a sigh. After a moment, he gave Alex’s hand a gentle squeeze back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been a stressful two days for Ben Daniels. As soon as Wolf had returned to active duty, Ben had set about his newfound task of trying to figure out exactly how to get ahold of MI6’s top gadget developer and technical specialist. Obviously, approaching his office, assistants, and boss hadn’t helped any. Ben knew nothing of Smithers’ personal life and it wasn’t as though MI6 made a habit of publishing an employee directory for obvious reasons. A cursory internet search didn’t reveal much-- the man, unsurprisingly, wasn’t active on social media nor did he have much of a digital footprint at all apart from the occasional speaking engagement or committee service. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been frustratingly fruitless. The man clearly still existed, but no one had heard from the eccentric personality responsible for outfitting the agents assigned the more challenging missions. Ben quickly ran out of viable candidates to even question since it only increased the odds that word would get back to Jones that he was looking into the man with a renewed fervor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t have become a ghost, though! Surely, someone knew something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cross and bitterly trying to at least give the appearance that he was focused on his actual paid work in Special Operations, Ben had just been about to give it up as a dead end as he stalked into the break room to grab a quick cup of tea. Smithers had been fond of tea. Had this odd little habit of adding toffee bits to sweeten his drink, which he’d apparently read about on--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben had frozen, holding the mug cabinet open, face to face with a little purple tin of baking toffee bits he was certain hadn’t been there the day before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well aware that most of the building was under some kind of surveillance, he gently plucked the little tin from the shelf and continued making his tea as though he’d only been temporarily lost in thought. Nothing had seemed unusual about the exterior of the little container, so he carefully opened it and scooped a small amount of chips into his drink to sweeten it. Affixed to the inside of the lid was a small, glossy advert for baking morsels with a little coupon code printed to it. Ben crumpled it in his hand as he stirred his drink, returning to his desk. If anyone reviewed the tape, they might catch him taking something out of the tin, but that could easily be attributed to the toffee bits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken ages and ages of wrestling the impulse to look at it, but somehow Ben made it through the work day without caving. At a small cafe along his route to his flat, he gave in and stopped long enough to fish it from his pocket and examine it more closely. Nothing terribly unusual about it, except for the barcode: it was far too short to be standard and it didn’t take a genius to realize it was a phone number when you removed all the zero digits. This was meant to be found and recognized, just not by anybody else. Calling it yielded an error message, but his text was answered immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Brookland Comprehensive School. Two hours. Don’t be late.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, two hours later, Ben found himself pacing absently in front of the main office. He checked his phone again, unsurprised to see nothing. Calling him would be out of the question, but he didn’t see any obvious destination or meet point. Surely he wasn’t supposed to wander the property indefinitely? The front doors had been left unlocked and the only other sould he’d seen had been a janitor that hadn’t seemed terribly interested in him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Ben had any doubt that this was Smithers and that he knew about Alex, it was gone now. He’d never asked Alex what school he attended, though it had been passingly mentioned in a report about a sniper attack on a schoolroom in one of his files. If Ben hadn’t recognized the name, the fact that he was having a secret meeting at a children’s school would have been a clear enough allusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On a small bench in front of him, something began to ring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben approached slowly, warily. A graphing calculator had been left clumsily to the side as though it had carelessly tumbled from a backpack earlier. It was obviously for him. Surely the janitor would have collected it by now, not to mention that calculators didn’t usually have a ringtone to begin with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben cautiously picked it up. The ringing stopped, and instead, the small digital screen illuminated green. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Please hold steady, one foot from eye, and try not to blink</b>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben did as instructed, fighting his wince as it scanned his iris with a short burst of light. After the little device seemed to contemplate this new information, the screen changed. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Text chat initiated!</b>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. He’d rather been expecting a phone call after the little ringing had gone off, but he supposed this would do. Normally, he might take this level of obfuscation as a hint that he might not be speaking to whom he thought, but this was all just so… Smithers. So long as he got some kind of answers. It would be a bit of a pain to try and type using the alternate text functions, though--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost as soon as he thought that, a little slide out keyboard revealed itself, spanning the entire length of the device. Squinting, he turned the calculator on it’s side, it now functioning as an almost comically oversized cell phone rather forcing him to peck at the little numbers to select each letter. Did all calculators have that now or was this a Smithers original? He supposed that could be a new model. It had been less than a decade since he’d been in school himself though...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, Agent Daniels! I’m so glad you took my advice about the toffee chips. They really do add a nice caramel flavor without overpowering the rest. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben typed as quickly as he could. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did you really plan this so far in advance? That’s one hell of a hint. All these months?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course not, old bean. I just really like using toffee chips. Hoping you’d remember the tip was a bit of a gamble, to be perfectly upfront. I hear you’ve been asking after me and Alex. Do you know where you are right now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His school.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Absolutely correct! And why do you think I have suggested this as a drop point?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben stared at the screen for a good ten seconds before he decided to err on the side of brevity. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not sure I understand your question.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why do you think I chose this place, despite all others I could have sent you to? Come now, take a minute, my good fellow. Think carefully.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben sucked air through his teeth. Now wasn’t the time for riddles, though he got the distinct impression that this was more of a password question rather than a fun brain teaser. The problem was, he had no earthly idea what it was.‘Toffee chips’ probably wasn’t the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was it that Smithers wanted to know from him that he didn’t already? Ben was almost certain the man knew far more than him if he’d been in contact with Alex directly. Maybe the question was of Ben’s intent. The purity of his motivations, perhaps. He didn’t exactly blame him, he supposed, given the utter nightmare it had been trying to navigate around Jones and whatever song and dance was--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got it abruptly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s where Alex should be, according to MI6 files. Except they put him in some kind of secret prison instead. Before all this mess, school is where he was supposed to be. Where Blunt and Jones should have left him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Ben hesitated but couldn’t stop himself from adding,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Do you know if he’s alright?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Each second seemed to increase his heart rate, until finally...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Alright” is a relative term, I’m afraid, old chap. There’s a few questions I’m willing to answer. But first, answer another of mine. Why are you looking into all of this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben considered answering that it was his job, but knew better. Obviously, something was going on with MI6 and Smithers, else Smithers would be checking his emails and not sneaking coded adverts into toffee tins. Besides, Ben was past the point of being merely assigned to bring Alex in based on the vain hope the kid would recognize and trust him. Kingman had been officially declared a failed mission and his workload had long since moved on. His handler had told him to expect to be sent out into the field in a few weeks-- his medical leave had ended awhile back, though he had been kept in London long enough to worry Jones was punishing him for asking too many questions. Now she couldn’t wait to get rid of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honesty was probably the only thing Smithers would accept. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m worried about Alex. He’s in some kind of trouble but no one here is telling the truth, and I don’t know if he’s getting the help he needs. He’s probably not if he’s still with Gregorovich.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If no one in MI6 is telling the truth, what makes you think I will be any better?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t, honestly. I just know that you helped him get away in Kingman and now you aren’t at MI6. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ben paused, trying to sort out his words, well aware that Smithers could cut the connection and walk away if he were less than satisfied with responses at any time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jones says one thing, but does another. Alex’s safety doesn’t seem to be the actual priority. The weird injections. The lies about where Alex has been and the treatment he was getting. Something’s not right. Something very bad for Alex.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Many bad things have happened to Alex. You witnessed several such instances yourself. Why object now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben hissed through his teeth. He couldn't be imagining the sudden accusational tone in the man’s words. The truth stung, however much he didn’t like it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because it was always supposed to be temporary. He wasn’t supposed to be damaged. Not like this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lots of heroes come back damaged. He served his country. Saved millions of people. The lives of the many outweigh the few. Isn’t that why we sacrifice our own?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But those are ours to give.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ben swallowed.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I used to think it was… just, in a way. A bad thing for a good reason. Alex certainly seemed to believe in the collective good; that’s why he agreed to help. It was foolish of me to believe that made it okay. I should have made a bigger fuss, but that doesn’t matter anymore. He’s in trouble now. Unwell. I want him to get better. To be safe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As do I. Tell me, though, exactly who you think he needs the most protection from?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shut his eyes. The pressure was on. In this game of riddles that didn’t sound like riddles, he knew the obvious answers would end the conversation right here and now. The truth wasn’t lurking in the obvious answers anyway. It had kept him up at night for weeks now, as he’d laid there, deading this inevitable conclusion. Of solidifying it, even if his mind had brushed up against the thought long ago. Part of him had accepted it, but it was only a small part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time for treason. Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was now or never. It had been a short, stressful career he’d had, should the worst happen and he be discovered. If he were fortunate, he would spend the rest of his days locked in a jail cell for even having this conversation. Then again, that was assuming he didn’t end up otherwise disposed of, ironically for trying to do the right thing. The only real difference between the two would be the story they fed others about what really became of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The problem was, you could say almost all the same things about Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> It’s Jones, isn’t it? There’s just too much amiss to be otherwise. I’ve been thinking about the last time I saw him. I can’t stop going over it, ever since I realized you’d been the one who had to have helped Alex in Arizona. Why leave him with G? I’ve seen your work. You could have taken him with you or immobilized G so he would be caught, but you didn’t. It’s us. MI6 is who Alex needs protecting from, at least more than anyone else.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the first, simple, straightforward answer he’d gotten so far. It made Bens’ stomach sink, to hear his worst fears confirmed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>More terrible things are going to happen to him, aren’t they? If Jones finds him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll contact you again soon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Without much more warning than that, the little calculator let out an almost roman-candle-esque whistle before firing off a neat flare. Ben yelped and dropped the little device as the firework crackled and dispersed against the wall. It turned out to be the first of many. Crackling and hissing loudly, spark after spark and wave after wave of multi colored flames and lights billowed forth, echoing loudly off the hallway walls. When all was said and done, Ben was left with a hammering heart in a dead silent hallway, standing next to a scorched section of floor, covered in plastic remnants and ash.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen watched Alex sigh and fidget with his cane for what had to be the fiftieth time. He knew he should be a little sympathetic to the brat; after months on the run in almost total isolation, Yassen was now subjecting him to a dinner party with Dima, of all things, and the boy would have to be on his best behavior a mere two days after his little balcony freakout. Knowing that was not enough to persuade Yassen’s brain, apparently. Rather than muster any sympathy, he found himself transfixed by the little knob on the back of the boy’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was tempted to murder Briar for showing Alex what a manbun was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the things he could be filling his mind with-- mentally preparing to make calculated social moves with Dima, assessing what he could about the family structure of the mob, compare it all in the constant mess of comparisons he had to run about the internal state of the bratva versus Scorpia versus the SVR-- he found himself longing to hook his index finger through the little loop of hair and slide a knife across the base. To destroy the offending strands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just hair. It shouldn’t bother Yassen this much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet it did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was only after they’d taken a taxi across town and stepped through the lobby of Dima’s apartment building, assessed the handful of security men Yassen had made a point to acknowledge, and been directed to the elevator that Yassen was able to pinpoint any reason why: he was embarrassed of how awful it looked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the things. Of all the things Yassen had thought himself intellectually free of after years of rigorous mental conditioning and meditation, he somehow still had the capacity to care about how Alex’s appearance reflected on him. At least when they’d been traipsing across America, they hadn’t stayed anywhere long enough for Yassen to have any kind of reputation. It had irritated him, but he hadn’t found the time to dwell. Russia was already starting to feel semi-permanent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced down at the bottle of nice vodka he’d bought as a gift. Suppressed the urge to pop it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stepped into the elevator, decorated with white paneling and a mirrored ceiling. Probably concealed a camera at minimum: Dima wasn’t the top of the food chain, but he was important nonetheless and by job description alone required to be cautious. Alex glanced up at his reflection-- dark circles under his eyes, stupid hair, and all-- and sighed again. “Are you sure there’s no way out of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t complain,” Yassen said, without any real heat. He had far smaller problems consuming him. “At least this way, you’ll know someone else at your school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a flat look. “So this is essentially a playdate? I think I’m a bit too old for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just dinner, little Alex.” Yassen grimaced. “And I can only refuse the invitation so many times. You’re not obligated to like Dima’s children, but you are obligated to behave. And use your cover name, for the sake of getting them in the habit of using it at school. I already reminded Dima.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Alex grimaced and flexed his leg out. “You said something about it being a holiday before. Am I going to have to pretend to understand any weird traditions or anything like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just the old New Year, from before the Soviet Union switched to the Gregorian calendar.” He shrugged, catching Alex’s look. “Think of it like Boxing Day. Most people sit at home and enjoy the day off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled as the elevator opened and they approached the door of the apartment. Hopefully the brat could maintain his relative mildness tonight. He’d granted him an extra half-tablet of oxycontin in exchange for not taking any of the cannabis tincture Yassen had made an effort to source the day after he’d found him on the balcony. In small amounts, the painkillers kept the boy on the sedate side, whereas the cannabis tended to produce more obvious signs of a high; since it wasn’t his preferred drug, the ex-child-spy was prone to overdoing it anyway. Alex had agreed to the trade-- but made no promises should the night turn into a shitshow without his help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose as he rang the bell. He hadn’t let himself forget finding Alex on the balcony-- he couldn’t afford to. Obviously, he had been massively negligent in leaving the pills just lying around while Alex was vulnerable and recovering. It was a wonder Alex didn’t overdose on Yassen’s stupidity alone. Berating himself the entire time, Yassen forced himself to accept the lesson as it had been given and made time the very next day to source Alex a less risky alternative to getting high. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thick door was opened by a young girl at least a few years younger than Alex (though they looked physically close in age), her pale, almost colorless hair pushed back with a neat black headband. She glanced at them both with muddy colored eyes and pulled the door open for them to enter. “You are Papa’s friends?” she asked in Russian. “Please come in. Dinner is going to be late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, there you are,” Dima said, strolling forward and pointedly using English with a chiding glance at his offspring. Supposedly her school taught all it’s lessons in the language, though she’d clearly drawn a line about which she preferred.  Instead of his business suit and thick peacoat, Dima wore his white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Why don’t you come sit? There has been small delay, but we shall just have to visit. My daughter--” he glanced around, but the little girl had already disappeared. “Her manners are missing tonight. My apologies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen passed him the vodka, as he removed his shoes and gave Alex a pointed look to do the same, slipping on the plain set of guest slippers beside the door. “Don’t worry about it. It is gracious of you to have us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is just as well,” Dima muttered, showing them through the short hallway into the main living area. “Zena and Zoya are, how do you say... identical twins. You practically meet both already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s apartment was a penthouse suite, tucked austerely at the top of a renovated mansion some member of the aristocracy had no doubt lost an era ago. Now, it boasted a split level with a curving grand staircase leading to the second floor, shining dark wood paneling, and plaster white columns built tastefully into the support structures. A fairly traditional display of old school wealth, juxtaposed gently with the inclusion of more modern needs: plush, imperial style furniture sitting before an oversized flatscreen TV and a video game console, controllers scattered across the seats and the floor. On one side of the living area, the room opened up, leading to the staircase and over to a set of wide windows neatly arranged with a balcony to admire the night view of the neighborhood. On the other, a double set of wooden doors led into the dining room and kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt a pang of surprise, which he quickly suppressed. It was easy to talk shit on ‘wealthy pig fuckers’ when you were squatting in a derelict and chewing on what stale bread you could steal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small flicker of grief joined the feeling. Yassen had liked Dima’s stubborn refusal to accept that his poor lot in life made him worth any less. Wondered if affluence had smoothed those rough edges, as it had his half-handsome, half-ugly face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another pale haired girl darted forward, features every bit as identical to the first’s, though she wore a pink headband. Yassen was grateful they seemed to color code themselves. She glanced quickly at them and scowled at her father, also stubbornly sticking to Russian. “He’s doing it again,” she snapped. “I told him not to, but he says just because people are coming over doesn’t mean he’s not at home--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, Zoya,” Dima said, shoulders stiffening. “Get ready for dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She folded her arms. “If you let him now, he’ll just start again at school. It was humiliating--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not now. I say it's fine,” Dima snapped, flicking a glance at Yassen. He turned to face the assassin. “Again, I must apologize. It will be funny story, I’m sure, some day. Today has fate determined to make me a fool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t get a chance to open his mouth for another polite assurance before a new figure appeared at the top of the landing. Their short, dark hair could have passed as a soft pixie cut, especially as teased back with hairspray as it was, and worn in conjunction with the neat tan skirt, heels, and billowy silk blouse. Tasteful and feminine. However, between a set of somewhat wider than expected shoulders, Yassen’s own training in assessing gaits, and the twin’s sudden irate glares, he had no doubt that this was the ‘he’ the girls had been complaining of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My eldest,” Dima said, face going a touch rigid in what Yassen assumed was a supreme effort not to wince as said child descended, nearly tripping on the carpeted stairs. Yasen would have guessed their three inch heels were a touch too ambitious for their balancing skills. “Lada.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he’s Timofey,” Zena snapped, joining her father in English and standing in the doorway leading to the dining room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re at home,” Dima hissed, switching back to his native tongue to round on her. “And I told you that’s not your decision. Use the other name at--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s bad enough when it’s just him. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> embarrassing us too,” Zoya said behind him, glowering. She turned back to Yassen and Alex and switched abruptly back to English as well, with perfect, careful pronunciation. “Dinner is late because Mama found out you were coming and fired the housekeeper before she could begin cooking, because they are getting a divorce and he won’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two. Bedrooms. Now.” Dima clenched his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa, he--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now.” He visibly summoned his patience as they both stomped off. “Ten minutes,” he added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His attempt at mitigation went unappreciated as two doors slammed only a split second apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Considering how much context he lacked, Alex surprised Yassen with how quickly he put all the pieces together. He offered the adults only a short considering look before turning to Dima’s eldest child, whose neck had red creeping through it, though whether it was in anger or embarrassment was unclear. “Hello, Lada. I’m Sasha.” The brat even managed to not wince as he used his cover name, then nodded to the green video game cases scattered across the floor in front of the couch. “Want to play Mario Kart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Lada’ nodded, relaxing noticeably as Alex seemed to take things in stride. “Certainly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had to very, very forcibly smother the rising tide of… something in his chest. Something distressingly similar to pride. Despite Alex’s many problems, the little reminders of his better instincts were like nuggets of gold every time circumstances managed to uncover them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not allowing himself to get lost in the emotion, he turned back to Dima and nodded to the vodka. “You look like you could use some. Do you know of any good places that deliver?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ordered dinner ten minutes ago.” Dima nodded heavily and gestured for Yassen to join him as he walked into the kitchen. In the other room, Yassen could hear Alex switch on the game console and begin chatting happily about his previous scores. Approaching a glass paned cabinet, Dima pulled out two small glasses and poured them both a finger, pausing only to quickly toast with the offered glass. “To the many challenges presented by children. May they never fail to keep us humble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen accepted his. “Among other things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Downing all of his in one go, Dima stared morosely at his empty glass. “You have no idea, soldatik. I read all the books, did all of the research, looked at the most careful studies-- everything about raising children. None of it prepared me for this shit. It’s like drowning, only somehow more stressful and embarrassing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t help the small smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Probably the vodka’s fault. “Oh, good. I thought it was just me and I didn’t get to prepare </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima groaned and poured them another round. “My time was well spent, I see. About that… how did you acquire him?” He waved a hand, seeing Yassen pause. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I understand the need for secrets. It’s hard enough to believe he was a child spy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's not really a secret,” Yassen said, glancing back through the dining room doors. Alex screwed up his face, obviously in response to something on screen, which earned him a triumphant laugh from his companion. “We were incarcerated in the same prison. The warden bribed me to look after him because of how hideously understaffed they were. When I broke out, I simply took him with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima raised an eyebrow at the half measure of liquor in his glass. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why indeed? His own reasoning felt bizarre to himself most days. Even from the outside, it was clear that Alex was a high maintenance responsibility and certainly not an intuitive one for an assassin. Yassen shrugged. “His father saved my life years ago. Made me what I am now. I owe him a debt and since he’s dead, I suppose only his son can collect it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yours is better than mine,” Dima muttered, rolling his eyes. “A broken condom doesn’t sound nearly as noble. Are you delivering him safely to relatives, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head. This part of Alex’s Scorpia file he remembered crystal clear. “He’s very much an orphan. There is no one else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima snorted. “At least he’s a nice kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is,” Yassen agreed. “And if I have my way, he’ll be a normal one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t worry. I doubt his limp will be noticeable.” Dima sighed, glancing out at the living area again. “Unlike other things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Yassen’s turn to snort. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt the urge to be honest. Maybe the rabid sentimentality that had overcome him was now fading into nostalgia for his old friend. Maybe it was sympathy for Dima’s situation. Maybe he was subconsciously accepting the futility of denying a long term interest in Alex’s welfare. Of concealing the boy’s many problems. At any rate, the information really wasn’t a secret-- of that, he couldn’t even entertain the idea of denying. Dima would get it from the SVR eventually, if he’d gotten wind of their custody in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was only a matter of time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Withholding the information only had limited tactical value anyway-- Alex was a known weakness of Yassen’s, however much he despised having one that was practically a matter of public record. Confiding in Dima, or at least appearing to, would gain him valuable trust. “His tenure at MI6 resulted in being poisoned with a hormonal suppressant to delay puberty, only it also temporarily gave him serious psychiatric episodes as a side effect. He hallucinates wildly, has panic attacks often, as well as minor seizures, and is prone to emotional disturbances. Because these things went untreated for a significant period of time, he is also a drug addict.” Yassen raised his glass in acknowledgement. “And, yes, the bullet wound might leave him with a limp if he doesn’t follow his doctor's orders and use his cane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima stared at him, eyebrows drawn while he processed that. After another few seconds, he poured them both another drink. It occurred to Yassen that he should slow down; he’d been avoiding having more than the occasional shot of liquor since Oakris and his tolerance might have shifted. “They never do what is good for them, even when you make it easy. It’s positively infuriating,” he said at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not wrong.” Yassen waved a hand and leaned back against the counter. “My point is that I am not inclined to judge your circumstances nor your children. I am in no position to do so. They are what they are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Instead, now I get to judge yours. Kidding, kidding.” The mafia head of security paused, about to take a sip. “His hallucinations… are they violent?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a dry look. “Only to himself. I would not put him in school otherwise. We don’t need that attention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured as much, but I would be remiss not to ask,” Dima said, inclining his head. It was hardly necessary. Yassen wasn’t the least bit offended. “What does he see? Evil clowns and fairies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More the nightmares of his missions. Memories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s rather cruel of fate to make him live them more than once,” Dima offered. “But they are getting better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slowly but surely. He is somewhat less prone to drastic action.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somewhat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Part of it is just his personality,” Yassen grumbled into his drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima chuckled at that. “A regular handful, then. I knew I liked him for a reason.” He snapped his fingers. “Ey, soldatik. Do you remember those awful cigarettes we used to smoke?”</span>
</p><p><span>“Those </span><span>Belomorkanals?</span> <span>As if I could forget. If I hadn’t seen you and Roman buy them myself, I’d have thought you were stealing them off of dead tramps. They smelled like it, at least.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I have a pack around here somewhere.” Dima began pulling open drawers and rifling through them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pushed away from the counter.  “I’ve got a light.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: I'M SO SORRY, GUYS! I'm so, so late this week. I wish I had a cool excuse but I'm afraid I was not base-jumping with international supermodels in order to stop global warming and save kittens or anything-- I just plain forgot. Like, two days in a row. </p><p>My bad. </p><p>P.S. Thank you everyone who messaged me. I'm not dead and I love you too!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alex watched as Yassen and Dima wandered through the main room and out onto the balcony on the other end of the penthouse. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when Yassen had explained Dima was an old friend from his time living in Moscow… but he hadn’t necessarily expected this. He seemed more at ease than Alex would have guessed he could be, at any rate. Not as relaxed as he was at their flat, but not as on guard as he was with Vankin. Odd. He wished he could understand what they were talking about, but whatever low conversation they were having was spoken far too softly for his limited translation skills anyway. </p><p>Dima poked his head back inside. “Lada? Call me when the doorbell rings. Dinner’s on its way.” </p><p>A second later the balcony door shut behind them, cutting off the cold air and the second hand smoke alike.</p><p>Lada glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, as the screen shifted from the scoreboard to the highlights reel of the last race. She’d chosen Peach as her rider, to Alex’s lack of surprise, and managed to wrestle a win, to his profound shock. Alex hadn’t even been trying to lose on purpose (though he’d considered the idea). “Of course. Papa can’t wait to dig out the most disgusting of all his brands.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” he asked.</p><p>She sighed. Alex noticed briefly a rough patch of makeup on her neck, where the foundation hadn’t quite managed to conceal the enlarged pores of someone capable of growing facial hair. He carefully glanced away, not wanting to make Lada uncomfortable nor examine his sudden surge of jealousy. </p><p>They were only about a year apart in age. Or were supposed to be. Frankly, he appeared closer in age to her pre-teen siblings. He shoved away the urge to touch his own perfectly smooth cheeks. </p><p>Why couldn’t he just be normal?</p><p>“Oh, he digs those stupid things out every once in a while. I’m not surprised. Your father visiting him is probably special occasion enough. Says he used to smoke them back when he was young and poor and the world was harder.” Lada rolled her eyes and tensed.</p><p>Zena and Zoya hovered in the gap where the hallway led into the living room. While both still looked unhappy, the hard edge of anger seemed to have evaporated. Alex got the impression that everyone was bracing for another fight. Not spoiling for one exactly, but rather resigned to it.</p><p>Alex pointed to himself then to each of them. “I’m Sasha, you’re Zena, you’re Zoya. Hello, nice to meet you. You be player three and you, player four. Let’s move up to five laps this time.” He turned back to Lada as her sisters tentatively sat on the floor and gathered their controllers. “What does your father say about that time? Yassen doesn’t like to discuss the past.”</p><p>Zoya piped up, quickly selecting her racer. “We only hear about it when he’s angry that we won’t do what he wants, like drink his stupid health smoothies or stop watching television or asking for new clothes he doesn’t think we need. He won’t shut up about how bad the orphanage was before he was homeless and lived in a condemned building with his friends and tried not to get caught stealing food by the police. How the boys would just die or disappear and we should appreciate what we have.”</p><p>“Mama says he should stop acting poor around us,” Zena said, eyes riveted on the screen. “It’s embarrassing. We might learn bad taste.”</p><p>“What does she know about taste?” Lada said quietly, lips twisting with obvious derision. </p><p>“He was really happy your father came back. He was supposed to be dead,” Zoya added absently before her siblings could get into a proper fight, obliviously preventing another spat as she cycled through Daisy’s alternate outfits. </p><p>Alex snorted. “Yeah, I’m half convinced Yassen is death-proof, so no worries there.”</p><p>“You’re strange. You call your father by his first name.”</p><p>“Yassen’s not my dad,” Alex said, after a pause. The countdown to the race appeared onscreen. Abruptly, he realized he didn’t really want to get into the how and why he’d come to live with the strange man looking after him, even if Yassen had told him it was unnecessary to lie to Dima, and to some lesser extent, his family. Perhaps he should? He’d been enrolled under his stupid Russian stripper name after all, and school would be where they all saw each other most: he was already introducing himself with it to ensure no one slipped up there, so maybe he should just commit to the entire lie and hope Dima and Yassen did the same. Besides, the truth was a crazy enough story without having to figure out how to explain it to Dima’s kids. “He’s my mum.”</p><p>“What?” Lada said, raising an eyebrow as the other two snickered. <br/>Alex grinned, leaning into the joke. “I mean, every time I so much as think about going outside, he insists that I wear a coat, no matter how quick of a trip it will be. If I eat sugar, clearly I’m asking for diabetes or at the very least scurvy. If there’s so much as a ray of sun in the sky, he wants me to wear sunblock because cancer will surely strike me down before I can make it more than ten yards from the door. That’s not dad stuff. He’s a mum.”</p><p>Zena giggled and glanced at him incredulously. “You shouldn’t say it so loud. He might hear you.”</p><p>“Oh, he knows.” Alex feigned surprise as that earned him a look from all three girls. The doorbell rang, prompting Lada to stand with a sigh and move towards the balcony. “What? I didn’t say he wasn’t a <em> good </em> mum.”</p><p> </p><p>****</p><p> </p><p>Dima took a long pull, almost pensively as Yassen lit up his own cigarette. The bitter edge of tobacco filled the crisp air, carried by the sharp wind and accented by the winking lights of the buildings peeking through the trees. A large park bordered the property of the complex, providing lush greenery only distantly visible under the occasional streetlamp. Dima exhaled a plume of smoke with a supremely satisfied sigh. “These are awful.”</p><p>Yassen took a neat pull, nearly coughing on the harsh smoke filling his lungs. The Belomorkanals had no filter, touted as some of the strongest cigarettes in the world. An actual cough escaped his lips. No wonder the rest of the world had abandoned the papirosa design after World War II. “God.”</p><p>Dima laughed. “Too strong for your poor lungs? Don’t lie. I saw your pack sticking out of your pocket earlier. Lights? Those are lady cigarettes, Yasha.”</p><p>“Then women are the smart ones, to hedge their bets against lung cancer.” Yassen irritably cleared his lungs and took another drag. “And that’s not my name anymore.”</p><p>“I noticed. You asked me to use this one once, though.”</p><p>“I know,” Yassen admitted. “But this is now.” He sobered, half considering Dima out of the corner of his eye. Alex had known about Estrov and a few details of what had happened there, but he hadn’t known that Yassen’s name had changed until he’d told him. Likely, that wasn’t a part of MI6’s files, which would be sourced from their own moles in the SVR. Still. Some record in some forgotten warehouse somewhere had to exist referring to Yassen’s true identity; Vankin had told himself they were hunting for such a thing specifically to support their case. If that were true, it could be disastrous if Dima casually tied Yassen to Yasha Gregorovitch of the town formerly known as Estrov.  While his name was the only potentially compromising thing Dima knew about him, it could be enough for the right agency to piece together his true purpose in Moscow and otherwise upset the SVR’s plans-- thus upsetting the balance by which his and Alex’s new lives rested. </p><p>Dima huffed, but the look in his eyes was sharp. He glanced away. “Yas-<em> sen </em> is such a silly name, though. Who calls themselves ‘ash tree’? I feel ridiculous just saying it. I know you’re a big international assassin with a reputation now, but I don’t know why I can’t call you by your actual name in private.”</p><p>Ironically, it was just like his situation in prison: Yassen’s best option was to stick close to Dima and ensure he didn’t use the wrong name, only this time both his and Alex’s life depended on it. The contract killer smothered a sigh. Still. It would defeat the point if Dima felt like Yassen was rejecting their old connection-- names were important in Russia, had felt important to him once even if it seemed like an arbitrary gesture to him now. Yassen couldn’t discount the fact that Dima’s sentimentality was the deciding factor in his protection from both Scorpia and the bratva. “Perhaps I will use it again someday, but for now it is best we do not. Slip-ups happen to the best of us and there could be… complications for me. For Alex. I don’t ask lightly.”</p><p>“Very well, soldatik. You and your caution must be appeased, no?” Dima nodded, leaning against the railing and flicking his cigarette against the edge of it. He turned and nodded to his house. “Well, all embarrassment aside, you’ve seen what’s become of my life for the most part. Care to give more cautious answers of what’s become of yours?”</p><p>Yassen leaned against the railing. “You know what’s become of mine. At least as much as you need to.”</p><p>Dima scowled. It pulled the lower half of his face slightly out of alignment. For a second, underneath the pale white balcony lighting, he was a teenager standing under the dim glow of a barely working streetlamp on Tverskaya street, wearing an oversized leather jacket with the sleeves rolled up. “Tell that to Roman. Tell that to Grigory. Where were you all these years?”</p><p>Yassen took in a slow, meditative breath through his nose. Stonewalling was only brewing resentment. Chert. “It’s a long, sad story,” he said eventually. “And the last person I told it to died a long time ago.”</p><p>“Now that,” Dima said, his temper fading as quickly as it came. “I do not doubt in the least.” He scoffed lightly through his nose. “Don’t worry. It being painful does not surprise me. Not even as a child did I let myself believe a rich couple in that building had decided to adopt you and whisk you far away to live in a palace. It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me, I guess. It’s just something I’ve wasted much time wondering about, off and on throughout the years. Perhaps I just need more hobbies.”</p><p>“You and I both,” Yassen admitted with a grimace. As much as he loathed the idea of talking about his past, it was obvious that it was going to be necessary. Dima had stuck his neck out for him enough already and with little in return except Yassen complying with a Bratva contract that barely scratched the surface of what the man wanted from him. A confidant, in some form, most likely. Moving forward, he needed Dima’s trust, which meant he had to give him some kind of answer now. There was no helping it. </p><p>That still didn’t change the way his teeth clenched, as though trying to trap the words inside. </p><p>“As you might recall, the apartment was owned by a man named Vladimir Sharkovsky,” Yassen said brusquely. Informationally. In English. Somehow, impossibly, his conversations about his past had seemed to go better when he had them in English. Easier to distance himself. To keep it factual. “He kept his mistress there. They caught me stealing. I didn’t know he was connected with the bratva and several other powerful interests back then, but he kidnapped me and essentially kept me as his slave. That’s why you never saw me come out. I arrived at his dacha in the trunk of his car, beaten and bloody.”</p><p>Dima seemed to chew on his words for a long minute. “A slave?” he said, repeating the unfamiliar word.</p><p>“<em>Rab </em>. I’ve no better word for it,” Yassen snapped, forced back into Russian. It stung like a slap, even though he knew on some level that Dima didn’t lack the vocabulary as a personal attack. “I wasn’t paid. I worked constantly. I had no days off. I was not permitted to escape. The dogs were more valuable than me. What word would you use?”</p><p>“Slave,” Dima said, after a moment. He was studying Yassen, expression shuttered with something Yassen prayed was not pity. “Was he unusually cruel?”</p><p>What a stupid question. How could their introduction imply anything but?</p><p>Yassen sneered before he could stop himself, busying himself with his cigarette to give himself a chance to wipe the expression from his face. Getting himself under control took a concerted effort. He hoped it was just the vodka. “I won’t bore you with the details, but when an assassin arrived to murder him, I begged him to take me with.” Yassen looked away, out at the distant lights. “Even with every bullet I’ve taken, every knife fight I’ve lost, and every shard of my soul that I’ve had to sell since, I do not regret that decision. My life may not be entirely my own, but at least it doesn’t belong to him.”</p><p>Dima gripped his shoulder, shaking Yassen gently and staring him solemnly in the face. “I am sorry for that. Thank you for telling me even if it is wrapped in old pain. It is not so happy an answer as I had hoped, but one that I can believe.” He hesitated. “Had I known where you were, I would have come for you. You know that right?”</p><p>A wicked stab of an old memory-- the bitter, fleeting sensation of the old reckless hope of a fourteen year old curled in a fetal position on the floor of a tiny servant’s room-- flooded Yassen. How many of those first nights had he allowed himself to dream of just that? “You would not have gotten past the gate,” he said, in lieu of addressing the actual sentiment behind Dima’s words. He spun a finger at the balcony. “His security was better than yours.”</p><p>Dima snorted softly as he released Yassen’s shoulder. His crossness from earlier hadn’t returned. Yassen had returned to stonewalling without warning and was actively stepping out of touch distance, but Dima didn’t seem nearly as rejected as he had before. It baffled him, honestly. “Eh. I nearly died doing more foolish things at that age. You’re not the only one who can take a beating.”</p><p>Yassen snorted, remembering his cigarette all of a sudden. It was nearly ash. He tapped it anyway. “It was him who gave me my new name with a beating,” he said absently. One last thing. Maybe Dima did erroneously pity him, but perhaps Yassen could turn that to his advantage. He tapped his cheek and glanced at Dima. “One of his men had broken the bone. He asked me my name and I couldn’t even say it right. I didn’t dare correct him. That’s how I was named Yassen.”</p><p>“Why on earth would you want to keep it? Take back your name, soldatik. Like you did your life.”</p><p>Yassen shook his head. Honesty came a little too easily now. “Yasha died then. Why disrespect the dead?”</p><p>“For personal satisfaction,” Dima insisted, pulling out a smartphone. His eyes narrowed on the little bright screen as it illuminated his scowling face suddenly. He peevishly stabbed at it with his thumbs. “You’ll see. Let’s find Sharkovsky’s grave. We’ll both piss on the ball gargling cocksucker--”</p><p>Yassen couldn’t help himself: he laughed, feeling the bitter, jagged anger leak out from him like rainwater from a gutter as the world shifted into something more tolerable. Something Dima could curse at and threaten to piss on. </p><p>The mobster looked up from his screen. “How do you spell his surname? It won’t come up.”</p><p>Yassen gasped, mirth fading as he brought himself under control. He gestured to the balcony door, where “Lada” was approaching. “Come now. I think food has arrived. The children--”</p><p>“We’ll make it a family activity,” Dima suggested, lips twitching though he finally relented and tucked the phone away. He waved to his child through the door and tugged it open. “Teach the children some proper spite. Act as living examples. They’ve done studies--”</p><p>Yassen flicked his cigarette into the darkness beyond the railing and followed. “Did you read that in your books on parenting? You’ll have to show me sometime.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Tiny apology chapter for my lateness? (It's even a happy one)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex raised an eyebrow at Dima from across the table, fork poised over his plate . Yassen had pointedly served Alex a bit of everything from the many takeout boxes that littered the center of the table, meaning once he’d had a chance to nibble everything, he’d quickly realized he’d have to engage in some clever misdirection and food spreading to avoid finishing the gross ones. That holodet stuff was pretty with all it’s egg flowers, but was essentially meat jelly, for fucks’ sake. Even looking at it made his stomach turn. “I recall someone promising me embarrassing stories about Yassen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sasha,” Yassen said pointedly, eyes narrowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glowered back. It was bad enough he had to use his stupid stripper name with the kids seated around the table, but Yassen using it was somehow four times as aggravating. He swiveled back to face Dima, taking petty delight in pretending to misinterpret the admonishment. “Sorry, Mum. More stories, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lada rolled her eyes, seated to her father’s side as her younger sisters devolved into disbelieving cackles. “Oh, god, Sasha. Please don’t get him started.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima held up a hand, busying himself with his wine glass. “To be fair, I promised but I never said embarrassing.” He glanced quickly at Yassen. “Though it was, how do you say, implied.” At Yassen’s look, he shrugged, “Okay, okay. No very bad ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That leaves out most of our time in the city,” Yassen said, his lips twisting as he stabbed a carrot on his plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shrugged. “Then you must tell the stories of your time before.” He turned back to Alex, grinning into his glass. “I mention this earlier, yes? His way of speaking. Accent. Yes, that’s the word: accent. Very… how do you say? Country?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed as Alex nearly choked on his food. “Dima.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice to know he does this to everyone,” Lada muttered, folding her arms over her lap. “Papa, stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex cackled. This was so much better than he expected. “He has a country accent?” he crowed, looking at the man in question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No more. He speaks very proper now. No accent at all,” Dima said, pretending not to notice the look the contract killer was shooting him over the dishes. “But when he first come to Moscow, it was very clear. Very cute.” He chuckled. “Just this tiny farm boy in a uniform--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was never a farm boy,” Yassen pointed out, stabbing his next chunk of food with more force than necessary. The man might be good at concealing his emotions, but Alex was something of a subject matter expert on his annoyance. “Even if I was from the country. Don’t dramatize it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DIma took a pensive, borderline innocent sip. “Did you grow food?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turned to study Yassen’s face as he answered, making zero attempt to conceal his glee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him an unimpressed scoff. The teen was stunned that he humored their host with a response at all. “A small garden. Barely grew anything and we certainly didn't sell any of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly,” Dima agreed, a little too innocently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s right, Papa. He’s not a farmer.” Zoya piped up. Her twin nodded. “They keep livestock too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A great point,” Dima said, winking at his daughter and giving Alex a ‘wait for it’ glance. “He would only be farm boy if he also kept animals. You had none, I take it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chickens don’t count,” Yassen said, after a telling pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex set his fork down with the condemnation of a daytime television lawyer. The verdict was in. “Farm boy, Yassen. You were a farm boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was no such thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now I see why your friends pretend to be dead for years.” Lada grimaced, clearly irked with her father on their guest’s behalf even if said guest seemed as unperturbed as ever. “Seriously, Papa. If he says he wasn’t, he wasn’t. You’re just speculating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima let out a somewhat dramatic sigh, turning to Yassen. “My children are no fun today. Want to trade?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speculating is an old hobby of your father’s,” the contract killer informed her, tearing off a chunk of roll and considering the piece. “Considering how many gossip columns he read as a teenager.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima dropped his silverware to his plate in outrage. “Bred sivoy kobyly!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared guilelessly at him. “What else did you keep all those Cosmopolitan magazines under your mattress for? Don’t tell me it was for the hair advice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex choked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turned to face the opposite end of the table at the sudden commotion. Zena was clutching her face with a gasp as Lada shoved a napkin at her. Water droplets had spread all over her plate and lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her twin cackled, unhindered by the spray. “It came out of her nose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima folded his arms, turning back to Yassen. “I did not. Prove it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Show us the evidence I had a country accent,” Yassen countered before finishing the remaining water in his glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s outrage faded into a wry twist of his lips. Alex got the distinct impression that he was satisfied far more than he was embarrassed. Odd. For whatever reason, Dima seemed to enjoy needling Yassen into a response even if all common sense and a passing knowledge of Yassen’s work experience should make that a very stupid idea. Of course, they’d been friends before all that. Alex spared a split second to wonder if Dima too could recognize Yassen’s sociable blankness and disliked it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima twisted behind him to grab the bottle of wine to top off both of their glasses. “I suggest, how do you say, --” he said a quick word in Russian that Alex didn’t catch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truce,” Yassen provided easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--truce,” Dima agreed, carefully repeating the word. He gave Alex a short, rueful grin. “I forget. For every embarrassing story I have, he has another. Must think of my reputation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thank god,” Lada said, standing to snatch Zena’s napkin from the table and pass it to her still sputtering sister. She dragged the younger twin to her feet, shooing her away to clean up. “Someone has found the off switch.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! I didn't even forget this week. :D I'm on a roll.</p><p>To answer someone else's question: nah, there's no pairings in this story. I am loosely considering it for future installations, so let me know if you think there's any good chemistry going on here. It won't be for quite some time though; I honestly don't think either Alex or Yassen are in a head space where those would be a good idea.  (Also, I'm not willing to consider Yassen/Alex for this story. Not a hater, just don't think it works for this story given the nature of their existing relationship.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen sighed and suppressed the urge to reschedule his entire morning for the third time. Forced himself to physically put his phone back into his pocket. It would be as ridiculous as it was unnecessary. Everything was fine. Objectively fine-- he’d spent the entire morning wasting mental energy on proving to himself just how fine it was. Yet here he was, talking himself out of the idea again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was just that it was finally the culminating moment of so many weeks of frustration and expectations. A destination of sorts. It wasn’t nervousness, per se. More like a baseline stress radiating around a core of disbelief that they’d finally gotten here; a precarious feeling as though the rug could be swept out from under them at any given moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some part of his brain scarcely could believe Alex was finally going to school.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trailed after the boy. “Take the cane. It folds up and will fit in your bag. Just keep it on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Alex groaned. His school uniform had arrived only a day before. All things considered, it was pretty standard looking to Yassen’s eye. Navy blue blazer, crisp white shirt, red and blue striped tie. Similar to what he’d seen dozens of schoolboys wear before, though the actual fit was a little loose on Alex. He was gaining weight, but not as quickly as he should. “I won’t use it. The physical therapist says I can stop in a few days anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced, but decided to pick his battles. “Do you have your phone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slinging his nearly empty backpack onto his shoulder, Alex dug into his pocket to brandish the little silver flip phone. “Yes-- and it’s charged. Yes-- I double checked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And your pills?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And your drops?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex couldn’t hold the eye roll back. “Yes. Of course I do. Honestly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen fought a scowl. Partially won. “Don’t blame me. You’re still forgetful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was only half true: Alex’s memory retention had drastically improved, provided he wasn’t high. Which was daily. Yassen saw no need to inform the school of that particular shade of distinction. The woman at the registrar had seemed overwhelmed enough by Yassen’s doctor notes, lists of activity exemptions, and entries in the ‘other medical conditions we should be aware of’ category. Fortunately, there weren’t too many required academic accommodations that Alex would need from the school, other than requesting that his instructors be mindful of his absence seizures. The drug addiction would just have to be sorted out should it (likely) become known to the faculty. This did not worry Yassen terribly; Dima had assured him that it would be neatly swept under the rug after a quick chat with the headmaster and a small donation to the school’s sports department.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think it matters,” Alex said, adjusting the strap. Last night, Yassen had returned the boy’s hair to dark blonde at his request and it had been tied back into an untidy ponytail Yassen still yearned to chop. “I’ll only be there for a half day. If navigating the campus seems complicated, I might stay and figure out where my classes are but I doubt I’ll need to. I found the map online.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen twisted his lips. “Do you think you should have studied more for the placement test?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does it matter? It’s a placement test. The point is to get me started with what I already know. Exams won’t be for another year or two if they decide to hold me back a level anyway.” Alex grimaced. It seemed the boy’s general impatience spanned to academia as well. “And I’m already going to get stuck taking classes that won’t go towards my scores. Lada told me all the new foregin students have to take Russian Immersion if they can’t test out of the language. She says they do loads of day trips more than anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hesitated. “Timofey. Be careful with names. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> says, Alex. No slip ups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a pointed look. “She’s transgender, not a spy. It’s polite to use someone’s chosen name and pronouns whenever possible. Don’t worry, she already told me I’m to call her Timofey at school. She doesn’t really want to, but it’s the deal she has with Dima. I texted her this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize you were familiar with the protocol for this sort of thing,” Yassen said, reexamining Alex’s tiny bun in a new light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just what Yassen needed: another thing to aim this vague anxiety at. Yassen had only occasionally encountered this situation over the years he’d worked with Scorpia, so what were the odds that Alex had without enough regularity to be completely comfortable with it? Or was Alex’s interest… from personal experience? Was this where his reluctance to cut his hair stemmed from? A new development? There hadn’t been any indication… not really but… it was just a specific thing to know about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t mentioned any friends of this particular type, but perhaps his insistence on preferred pronouns was the reason Yassen hadn’t noticed when the boy offhandedly described his life back in London. Surely Yassen hadn’t been so out of touch or negligent that he’d missed something this--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted, obviously seeing something in his face. “A boy at Brooklands killed himself because everyone kept calling him by his girl name. I didn’t know him, but the school administration made us all attend an awareness lecture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen made a noncommittal noise. Of course Alex was the type to pay attention to a social awareness lecture. “Is there anything else you need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really. The taxi will take me right there and then I just have to meet the assessor at the front office.” Alex bit his lip, halting suddenly in his preparations. “Why? Are you worried I’ll mess it up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.” Yassen glanced at his watch. “Go on. You’ll be late if you wait any longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned, striding to the door. His limp was more or less gone, to be fair to the boy. Skipping the cane would probably be fine so long as he stayed off his feet whenever possible. “Whose fault is that?” He huffed as he reached the door and pulled it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just--” Yassen wasn’t quite sure what he meant to say. Good luck? Take your pills? “--don’t strain yourself,” he settled on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have a good day too, Mum,” the boy called back and shut the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen fixed the innocently shut door with a mild glare, in absentia of the teen deserving of it. Dima’s words echoed back to him, uncomfortably true: it really was like drowning constantly, only somehow more stressful and embarrassing. Not only was Alex his obvious weakness, not only was he moody and high constantly, not only was he wearing his hair like an aspiring homeless degenerate with a loosely formed garage band-- but now the boy was calling Yassen mum on a semi-regular basis. In front of other people. It had admittedly lightened the tension between the siblings at Dima’s dinner, but Yassen prayed it wouldn’t become a regular thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some instinct told him he wouldn’t be so lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, luck was a rather hit and miss force with them both. Alex especially. Knowing him, he’d come back shot again, having bumped into three ex-criminals hiding out at the school, before dismantling their operation, destroying some sort of expensive property, and winding up in the papers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. No. Alex’s problems were going to be far more mundane, realistically speaking. Steady absence from school for the past year would no doubt result in him struggling at least temporarily with his grades-- not even counting whatever he’d miss from his absence seizures. He’d grow tired more easily. Perhaps he would even have difficulty in making friends because of the relative social isolation of being on the run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen frowned. Alex had mentioned the children at Brookland avoided him because of the rumors that he was insane, in a gang, or on drugs. Technically speaking, all of those were true now given that Dima had enthusiastically lumped him in with the other ‘mafia brats’. Surely that wouldn’t ostracize him completely? If it did, that might… decrease potential friend candidates to other outcasts. But Alex wouldn’t be so foolish as to make friends with similarly addicted children. Hopefully. Yassen groaned. It would be just his luck if Alex became best friends with a heroin dealer. Of course, Alex’s drug addiction was already bad enough with Yassen’s constant monitoring of the situation. How much worse could it get surrounded by the children of the rich and the selectively amoral?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rolling anxiety taking up residence in his chest demanded a cigarette or two in tribute. Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose before returning to the cabinet in the kitchen and pouring himself a quick drink. Just a small one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At any rate, standing around wasn’t going to do him any good. Alex would be fine on his own and Yassen had already researched the school’s security to his satisfaction. He grabbed his coat off the rack by the door and yanked it on. There was plenty of time for him to scope out the rendezvous point, though he suspected if his contact really wanted to cause him trouble, there was a decent chance Yassen wouldn’t see it coming. Still, it was not in his nature to blindly trust intelligence agents of any capacity. Especially former ones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just because Smithers had assisted Alex before did not mean he wouldn’t turn on Yassen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex rapped on Ms. Belkin’s open office door with an uncertain smile. When she glanced up from her desk, he gestured back at the computer lab behind him. The last few hours of squinting at his monitor and wracking his brains for whatever vague memories of his lessons were at last behind him. Hopefully. It had gotten easier once Jack had stopped burning somewhere in his peripheral vision. “I submitted the last few questions. Is there something else I’m supposed to click on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs set up in front of her desk and began tapping at her keyboard. Short and redheaded, she reminded him a bit of one of his drama teachers from Brookland, sans the Irish accent. “No, not necessary at all. I’ve got your scores right here, Sasha.” She studied the screen for a long couple of seconds before giving him a pleased smile. “Let’s discuss your core skill set first. So far, so good. You’re testing more or less on point with maths and science. Wonderful. While it looks like your reading comprehension is acceptable, your writing portion of the assessment is a bit lower than we’d like to see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed and shrugged. “How far behind will it put me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much, really.” Ms. Belkin scribbled something on a notepad before giving him a sympathetic smile. “I know this probably isn’t the best news, but you are a bit behind because of your illnesses, but not by an impossible amount. We’re quite used to being flexible, you know. If you do summer lessons this year and possibly the next, you should be caught up in time to graduate with the rest of your class.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex perked up, unable to help himself. That was only a bit late considering he’d been preparing to go to uni at sixteen, but eighteen was the norm here. He’d expected worse considering how long it was since he’d even thought about his lessons. Surely he’d forgotten everything. “Really? What about exams?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ms. Belkin waved a hand. “We have a somewhat independent curriculum at Goldstone, but our credits transfer well. You can request whichever major exams that you’d like to sit for, depending on where you hope to apply afterwards, but they’re not all required and generally not on a fixed schedule. Lots of students take them a year or two late while they make up their minds about which country they intend to study in. I assume you’ll want to schedule the GMAT if you plan to return to Canada?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Perhaps.” Alex felt a small prickle of cheer spread across him. “That’s not so bad at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not at all,” she agreed, giving him another smile. She tapped at her screen a bit more. “Now, let’s go ahead and pick out some classes for you. You didn’t score high enough in Russian to make competency, so we’ll start you with Immersion…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later, Alex had a printed school schedule and a lighter spirit. Admittedly, his course load was pretty heavy and he’d almost certainly have an overabundance of homework, but it wasn't as bad as he feared, especially in maths and science. (Maybe he’d tell Yassen those homework drills had been good for him-- maybe.) He’d still be in classes with students mostly a year or so younger than him, but that didn’t seem to be entirely unusual, given the varying curriculums the international crowds brought. He sighed and rubbed at his still completely hairless cheeks. At least he looked the part, but with any luck, he’d be growing soon and moving on to other classes with students closer in age. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He strode carefully through the hallway towards the lunch room. While technically his day was done and he was free to leave, the headmaster had stressed that he was welcome to explore the campus and join the students for lunch now that he had his student ID badge. He was even encouraged to join his scheduled lessons, though his teachers wouldn’t expect him until tomorrow.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Goldstone International Academy reminded Alex quite a bit of the Cairo college he’d gone to before Rosethorne. Rather than the open desert and exotic vegetation, this campus was made up of a series of brick buildings, some of which dated back to the communist sixties, interspersed with several modern additions and connected by glass tunnel walkways. The same universality of school applied here as it did to all the others Alex had visited by now: there was a gymnasium and classrooms, a big commons area for lunches and a theatre area that also functioned for assemblies. A library. Art rooms. Even a greenhouse. Everything a school should have. Even the same sounds and smells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was reassuring how boring and normal a series of buildings could be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The biggest difference between Goldstone and every other school he’d been to was the security. Black domed cameras were scattered across the ceilings in the high traffic areas: hallways, lunchroom, and the library. It certainly wasn’t rigourous, however. Even without the help of his iPod, Alex could tell that there had to be dozens of blindspots within the building. Perhaps the point wasn’t to worry about threats from within. The exterior was the real focus of the security features: despite the ample amount of snow piled up around the front courtyard areas, he could still see the brick and wire fencing that surrounded the property, broken only by the two checkpoints that allowed students to pass in and out of school. Guards patrolled the hallways and shoveled paths, armed only occasionally and mostly with non-lethal weapons. They’d be quite serious looking if they didn’t occasionally stop to high five passing students and scold anyone straying from where they should be. Alex wondered if they were instructed to be more approachable or if they had all just quickly realized they were essentially menacing-looking hall monitors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex plopped down on the closest bench to rest for a few minutes, plucking out his iPod ever so casually and opening up a handful of it’s secret functions. The school’s alarm system was certainly decent-- so much as a cracked window should send the guards running. Several of the staff areas seemed to have fingerprint scanners as well. Most classroom doors seemed to be reinforced and the glass windows appeared unusually thick in areas according to his thermal imaging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had mentioned the security was decent, but hadn’t seemed particularly impressed. Alex was pretty sure he understood now. There were plenty of ways to compromise the individual features, but with so many stacked atop each other it would require a lot of advanced planning. He imagined the school had a bit of a balancing act to maintain: any more obvious security features and it would quickly feel more like a prison than a place of learning. Like in Cairo, the students wanted some sense of normalcy and armed bodyguards in every classroom would certainly rob them of that. As for kidnapping risks, Alex would rank most of these students at a warm medium: millionaire parents rather than billionaires or semi-important mafia children with parents not wealthy enough for private tutors or Point Blanc level boarding schools. At any rate, the current measures were enough to deter the unprofessionals and medium grade snatchers: it would be difficult for anyone without Scorpia sized resources to mount an attack that couldn’t be interrupted and without leaving ample evidence. In this, the school did its job: educated a handful of children while discouraging any kidnapping attempts within their walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand tapped Alex’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jerked his head up in surprise, quickly stowing his iPod screen out of sight in the split second it took him to recognize the teen trying to get his attention. “Hey, L-- Timofey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good save.” Timofey shrugged and tucked a notebook under his arm. Dressed identically to Alex in his own neat school uniform, he still seemed to give the irritated air of a minimum wage worker crammed into a barely tolerable costume and desperately looking forward to the moment he could punch out. His hair had been brushed straight down and his plain black backpack offered no interesting features. Just an average school boy. If Alex hadn’t been looking for the small hints of rebellion, he would have missed it: the small tightline of black eyeliner, the almost perfect shave-job, the unusually immaculate yet neutral manicure. Timofey certainly didn’t stand out among the crowd, but upon close inspection, he didn’t fit it perfectly either. “Are you staying for lunch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thinking about it,” Alex said. Truthfully, his hip was beginning to ache but he had pills for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can sit with me and my friends, if you’d like,” Timofey said, spotting Alex’s schedule in his hand and gesturing for him to hand it over. He glanced around. “I thought you had a cane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex huffed. “Don’t need it. Physical therapist says I can stop soon anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet your mum doesn’t like that,” Timofey said, lips twitching. He pointed to one of the lines on the paper. “You share literature with Martina. Come, I’ll introduce you. She talks a lot but her notes are good…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex did end up staying for lunch. The canteen offered a delightful array of options for every dietary need imaginable. Most of it was Russian cuisine, but Alex spotted enough familiar dishes to know he wasn’t going to starve when he wasn’t feeling adventurous nor in the mood for pickled everything. Timofey’s friends overran the table furthest in the corner, half obscured by a series of indoor potted trees. About ten students altogether, mostly girls, all friendly enough. Since only about half of the student body were locals, an endlessly rotating group of friends was an accepted norm among the international crowd. Alex joined the group the same day as a shy brunette named Patrice did, who was actually from Canada. For a split second, he’d been worried she’d somehow call Sasha Lebedev out on his lack of Canadian-mannerisms and knowledge, but he quickly learned that she’d lived abroad for most of her teen years and had no real baseline to do so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>True to his word, Timofey introduced him to Martina, a local who spent most of the meal complaining about spending the holidays with her German father and intolerable new wife, whose biggest crime seemed to be that she kept trying to knit her sweaters. Alex didn’t necessarily mind his role as audience, since she was actually quite funny and it saved him from having to give more than the basics of his prepared backstory. He wondered briefly if Timofey had been given any particular instructions about how to behave around him, beyond what Alex assumed was a generalized expectation that they be surface-level friends for the sake of business. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter, he supposed. It was nice to just sit and be around people his own age for once and listen to their silly problems and laugh at their exaggerated responses. By the end of the meal, Alex left thoroughly cheered and hindered only by the sudden influx of cell phone number exchanges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex made it to the gate, tapping his card at the turnstile and waiting for the guard to wave him through. He glanced through the open door of the station, spotting a small set of pill bottles lining a shelf in an open lockbox, next to a pipe and a small bottle of liquor. Confiscated goods, probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitated looking at them, fingers digging into the straps of his bag. What were the odds they had anything like what Alex was carrying on him? Percocet wasn’t exactly a party drug, but most of those didn’t come in pill bottles anyway...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a jolt, Alex stepped through, realizing he’d forgotten to take his oxy before lunch. No wonder his hip was sore. He pressed a hand to it, rubbing it through his jacket. It was odd, though, normally he watched the clock as it crept towards noon, waiting impatiently for Yassen to give him his next dose. He hadn’t even bothered with his weed drops today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced away from the door and refocused on the street. While part of his mind was already noting the placement of another security camera above the checkpoint and the relative inattentiveness of the guard, a much more conscious part of him shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter whether Alex could get it because he wasn’t going to. He didn’t need it. Yassen got him plenty and he was feeling fine anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safely outside the gate, Alex popped his late oxy into his mouth and put the lockbox out of his mind. Yassen had mentioned something about a nearby train station, but Alex didn’t recall exactly on what street it was on. Now to figure out how to get home.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Monday, everyone!!!! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The banya, or bathhouse, had stood unoccupied for at least a few years. A small sign affixed to the window suggested a temporary closing for renovations, but the lack of upkeep told a different story. The squat little door leading to the basement-level entrance had been kicked in the years past and no longer locked properly, sheltered from the immediate view of the street by a closed porch. On the outskirts of the city, the whole area gave the air of being derelict despite the many locals darting down the sidewalks and casting annoyed glances at the sky. Nobody lingered. It was a decent meeting place if one was looking to be unobserved. Yassen hardly stood out among the bundled pedestrians looking to escape the flurrying snow before it could begin in earnest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found himself a touch amused as he pushed open the door with a single gloved hand, pulling out the small RMS power detector he’d managed to source earlier this week. Bathhouses were notorious meeting places for clandestine business, given the relative ease of ensuring your conspirator wasn’t wearing a wire. Cliche as it was, that didn’t stop them from being effective locations in the field for weeding out traitors. It was a little ironic the gadget man had chosen an abandoned one, but from Alex’s stories, he wondered if the odd engineer had meant it in some kind of homage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, no radio, GSM, or wayward WiFi signals to speak of. Not in the fifty megahertz to ten gigahertz spectrum, anyway. Probably no audio bugs. That didn’t rule out video surveillance, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swapping the power and radio detector for an infrared detecting device that looked like a cross between a calculator and a cell phone, Yassen swept it carefully along the walls; given the poor light quality, it seemed like the obvious choice for any would be observers. The tiny building was silent and dark save for the small frosted strip windows near the ceiling, most of which were intact. Every surface was covered in varying amounts of dust. People had been through based on the number of cigarette butts and empty liquor bottles, but none of the tracks seemed fresh. Graffitied as they were, the empty wooden benches and tables dotted about the entrance area seemed to summon his memories of the tiny bathhouse in Estrov like ghosts at a seance. How the villagers would drink beer and chat as they hung clothing on pegs and tucked shoes into storage compartments before moving into the steam room beyond--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. He couldn’t let himself get so distracted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath plumed in cold vapor in front of him, almost mimicking the steam that no longer gathered in the braziers to be expelled from the complicated piping system spanning into the ceiling above him. The stoves sat cold and useless, while along the walls hung dried and faded bushels of birch leaves for thrashing, long untouched and wreathed in spider silk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small screen failed to illuminate with any detected infrared radiation as he moved into the bathing room, where the large, near-empty pool of brown water and litter gaped at him from the floor. He nudged one of the reclining pool chairs with his toe. Baseboards were a relatively good place to conceal a hidden camera, though with the heaped trash they were perhaps too blocked to be of use. While Yassen’s tech skills were nowhere near on par with the gadget master’s, the shop he’d sourced his equipment from was reliable and everything they sold was intelligence grade. At most, Yassen was hoping for a head’s up: if he picked up on so much as a hint that he was being recorded, he’d leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Information or no information, it was often better to be in the dark than dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, no matter how carefully he swept the walls with his light nor searched the interior of the sauna stoves, he found nothing of concern. No devices. Nothing out of place. Not that he expected any. He pushed open the door to the entrance room, carefully forcing his face to maintain it’s apathetic repose as he spotted the figure reclining on the bench closest to the serving counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Mr. Gregorovich,” the former Agent Smithers said, consulting what seemed to be a small black datebook. The contract killer had no doubt it functioned more extensively than the one Dr. Wood had received and that the man was actively scanning both him and the surrounding area. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen recognized his voice immediately. Even with Alex’s gleefully gobsmacked recounting of the wiry man hiding under the high-tech fatsuit, the assassin still found himself startled. He’d rather gotten the image in his head of someone deep into their middle years, not arguably only a year or two older than himself. The man’s brown hair stuck out from underneath his gray knit cap and he wore thin silver spectacles that made his bright eyes look a touch narrower than they were. His blue jacket was plain and his trousers simple-- in all, he would stand out to the average passerby about as much as Yassen would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it you are satisfied I haven’t bugged the place,” Smithers said to him, glancing up from his datebook. He shut it with a snap. “I assure you, my dear fellow, I have no interest in recording this conversation or sharing your location with any former colleagues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps.” Yassen approached much more slowly, stopping six feet away from the man. A comfortable distance for him: large enough to protect himself from any casual attack, but short enough that Yassen could cross it quickly to launch his own. He had no doubt that the man had a bullet proof set of clothing similar to Alex’s, which meant that unless he got a perfect shot to the man’s temple or forehead, his Beretta was useless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Yassen was comfortable killing him any number of other ways. Only one had to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well.” Smithers stood carefully and walked over to the wall of compartment lockers where patrons once deposited their valuables. He yanked open one and set his datebook and a smartphone inside before stepping away, nodding. “Your turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow. “I assure you I have no interest in recording you either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully striding forward, he deposited his phone into the next locker beside Smithers’ and gently shut them both. He didn’t bother adding his gun, which he suspected the gadget man was perfectly aware of. The other man was certainly concealing his own weapons, though Yassen didn’t expect to notice them outright. Reading between the lines of Alex’s stories, the man relied far more heavily on his tech than his physical prowess. “Satisfied?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers nodded sharply. “Quite. Now, what is it you needed to speak with me about? Your email was suitably vague.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “I don’t think my computer is compromised, but I didn’t want to take the risk. All I require is your most damning evidence that MI6 blackmailed Alex into spy service.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s quite a tall order.” Smithers raised an eyebrow. “Considering you’ve shown little interest in my case against MI6 before now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have little faith in courtroom justice,” Yassen told him. “The SVR simply needs the information to ensure MI6 finds neither the gumption nor the legal grounds to seriously attempt to extradite Alex. It is preventative, but I would also consider it inevitable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers canted his head to the side, lips pursed. “Because they already know he’s in Russia or because your involvement in the SVR’s Estrov gamble will eventually reveal you both should it move to trial?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen wasn’t surprised that the man was so informed. He’d arranged the initial meeting with Abramoff and the CIA after all. “Both. What can you give me?”</span>
</p><p><span>“I have several hard drives worth of evidence. It will be a simple matter to pass on a suitable sample to Mr. Vankin,” Smithers said, crossing his arms. “The real question is what can you give me?”</span><span><br/></span> <span>And here it was. There were a few things implied by Smithers agreeing to this meeting in the first place. Alex’s welfare was easily the biggest factor, but Yassen doubted the man would have risked coming to Moscow directly if he didn’t need something in return. Hopefully it wouldn’t be complicated, since Yassen wasn’t exactly confident in his ability to violently extract the information Vankin needed should Smithers’ demands be too great. “What do you want?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Smithers scowled, clearly biting the inside of his cheek. “When I met with Alex in Kingman, I asked if he would come with me to directly testify against Blunt and Jones. He said he’d rather stay with you and avoid the spotlight altogether, since as a minor, charges can be filed on his behalf. At the time, I was making steady progress, but I’ve run into a few snags. With these delays, I’m quite afraid he will be too old to avoid being directly involved by the time the wheels are properly in motion. It’s best if he does so now, rather than risk having the case dismissed altogether, burning even more of his time while I appeal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Involved how?” Yassen demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has to testify. He has to help initiate proceedings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” Yassen said immediately.  “In any other country, MI6 will get their hands on him before you get so much as a hint of traction in court. He will quickly be out of both of our reach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers shook his head gently, studying Yassen. “You don’t understand. Our needs are quite aligned. Your Russian friends are happy to stall on his behalf now, but how much international pressure are they willing to take before it’s no longer worth it? I suppose they might be willing to relocate him within their own borders to complicate things legally, but that might require separating you two and uprooting his life here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we silence MI6 quickly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if I provide the U.N. with definitive evidence that Alex was exploited, the SVR will be accused of fabricating it due to your presence here. If official charges are filed by representatives from several countries, however, with Alex officially backing them up on record, the accusations against MI6 suddenly have weight. The Russian government might have to get involved in some capacity, but it really only serves to strengthen their right to shelter Alex. They will have the moral high ground in the media while behind the scenes ensuring that they hold on to you. I doubt they will complain much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s eyes narrowed. “Have you already approached Vankin with this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. The answer is still no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers sighed. “I understand your reluctance. I’d rather Alex not have to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you do.” Yassen fixed him with a hard stare. “I don’t think you’ve ever had to live through anything like what he has. I don’t think you’ve had to put yourself back together after or take inventory of what bits of you are left. I don’t think you’ve ever had to then detail those things for the scrutiny of a bunch of bureaucrats so that they can determine just how little your suffering is worth. I will not ask him for that. Alex’s answer is already no. He will not testify.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers considered his gloved hands. “I can see why Alex has grown so attached to you. You take his needs very seriously. Tell me, Mr. Gregorovich, exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you going so far out of your way in the first place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chert poberi. Yassen didn’t bother concealing his ire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was never going to escape this question. It had been bad enough dealing with Alex on the cruise ship, but since he’d come to Russia, now everyone wanted to play the ‘why’ game with him. It was infuriating. There was no doubt in his mind that somehow, someday, someone would lean over his death bed just long enough to ask him why he’d risked everything for the little ex-spy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took the simplest route. “I owed his father a life debt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you have repaid it several times over. Arguably, you paid it before either of you arrived in prison when you took a bullet to the chest while trying to negotiate with Cray’s ego for his life.” Smither gave him a steady look, lips pressed tightly together. “Why are you still with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen narrowed his eyes. “Does it matter? I’m doing what you cannot: keeping him alive and happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers took in a sharp breath, but didn’t take the bait. “I’ve got a theory, though I confess I may very well be wrong. Perhaps you can help me decide. Now, doesn’t Alex look a lot like his father with his hair dyed as dark as it is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nostalgia? That’s your answer?” Smithers was well informed, but obviously hadn’t seen an image of Alex in the last 24 hours if he thought his hair was still dark. That little iPod must be as secure as advertised. “I don’t care. You may call it whatever you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Substitution is more accurate,” Smithers snapped. “A replacement for the one person you ever--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t help it. He choked, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did less to stifle the sound than he’d hoped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers stared at him, eyes darting over Yassen’s features as the contract killer hunched over, unable to contain the laughter carving it’s way out of his chest through his vocal chords. Wary concern was not an unfair response: it was a violent laugh, one Yassen felt more a victim to than a facilitator of. Surely he looked possessed. It certainly felt like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gadget expert stood tensed, ready to flee, but Yassen didn’t bother making any threatening gestures as he gasped, struggling to draw air into his lungs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a few seconds to inhale properly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, absolutely,” Yassen ground out, before devolving into a stray snicker. He clenched his fists as though he could physically force back the involuntary mirth. It didn’t work. “That must be it. Because if you dye his hair, Alex is basically Hunter, yes? Our relationship must be identical. I do so miss arguing with his father about how stupid his hair looked long or what insipid reality show he wanted to watch for hours or why he ccouldn’t subsist </span>
  <em>
    <span>solely on milkshakes for two straight months</span>
  </em>
  <span>--” Yassen choked again, clamping his hand over his mouth. “Every time, I can’t help but think of my unpleasable assassination instructor with a decorated military history. They’re practically the same person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers shifted uneasily. “Fair. I suppose the significant difference I’m trying to address is--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex is just so odd,” Yassen said. He should shut up, but he’d blown past some kind of mental limit without realizing it. It was almost akin to shellshock. Maybe he really was possessed. “I don’t know what to do with him. He found a coyote on the side of the road outside of Kingman and</span>
  <em>
    <span> I let him keep it because I didn’t know what else to do</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gregorovich, I didn’t mean to imply--” Smithers tried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He calls me Mum now,” Yassen groaned, pressing his palms to his forehead. “All the time. I don’t even question it. I answer to it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers didn’t even try to respond to that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen very much needed to stop talking now. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Christ, I’m asking Dr. Briar Wood for advice and I suspect her degree is written in crayon. I don’t know shit about children, but here I am. If he acted anything like Hunter, it would be so much easier</span>
  <em>
    <span> but they’re nothing alike and I--</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers held up a hand, wide eyed. “I believe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stopped short. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex is not your Hunter replacement. I’d hoped not, but I had to be sure.” Smithers waved a vague hand, with only a faint trace of apology. “No one ever thoroughly justifies their reasoning when they believe others to be in agreement, even when asked. However, most people rush to defend themselves and disproving an accusation demands more evidence. I didn’t realize you were so, well--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the edge of a nervous breakdown? Yes, neither had he.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled, finally able to clamp down on the rising hysteria and shove it back down. Reminded himself that killing the man would run counter to his goals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, most of his goals. Forgetting this encounter ever happened had abruptly leapt onto the list.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, his capacity to be embarrassed really hadn’t been eradicated from his psyche as much as he’d hoped. Like most befuddling things in his life at the moment, it appeared to be strictly Alex related.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen promised himself a stiff drink when he got home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think of it as brainstorming.” Smithers reached into his internal coat pocket, tensing as Yassen moved his hand to the small of his back with obvious intent to draw, but only pulled out a white iPod with a matching set of headphones wrapped around it (Yassen was tempted to shoot anyway but the urge to slam his own head into a wall for rambling about his feelings was just as potent). Carefully telegraphing his movements to the assassin, he tossed it to him. Yassen caught it without effort. “For your conversations with Dr. Wood, though I will also be reachable. I’ll look into your internet and computer security as best I can from afar, but for now, if the information can’t be passed indirectly in an encrypted email, just call.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen studied the man. “What makes you think you should trust me with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers shrugged. “I trust you to keep Alex alive and relatively happy. There’s a wealth of evidence to suggest you have and will continue to do so, least of which are Alex’s assertions that he accidentally gave you Stockholm Syndrome.” The man’s lips twitched. “Which I’m starting to believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned him an acidic look. “And what makes you think I trust you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t, of course. I’m useful for now, but I doubt that’s the same for you.” Smithers waved a hand blithely. “And I’ve no doubt that should I cross you, I’ll be quite dead quite soon. For what it’s worth, I trust you to look after Alex and little else. Your iPod can contact me, but I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure it’s signal can’t be used to trace my location. I can’t track yours either, unless we’re on a direct call and even then it would be difficult. As much as I would like to protect myself from assassination, such a feature could lead back to Alex. It’s not worth the risk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While somewhat inclined to doubt that last part, Yassen found himself believing the man overall. The fact that he hadn’t scooped Alex up despite needing him to testify implied Smithers’ own safety was precarious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was still safest in Russia. Trifling with Yassen would only risk that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has Alex shown you how to operate his?” Smithers asked.</span>
</p><p> <span>Yassen nodded and spun his finger across the trackpad, tensed and prepared for the little device to detonate. It never did; essentially the same as the first one Alex had used in prison, without any surveillance interrupting features. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Good. That’s one of the spares I had made up for Alex a few missions back. I liberated a few of his gadgets when I left, of course. I do so love to spoil him with gifts every now and again. No extra features this time: if you want to use my tech to commit crime, Alex can be the judge of that. I also took the liberty of pre-loading this one with music that seemed more your style.” Smither nodded to a locker several spots down from the one their phones were currently housed in. “Speaking of spoiling him, I brought another bullet proof shirt. It’s best not to let him rely on his damaged one going forward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still somewhat aggravated, Yassen nodded. “How much can it take before losing effectiveness?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One, maybe two direct hits,” Smithers sighed. “Knife damage is variable. Normally I would say that it’s more than enough, but Alex seems to find himself in extenuating circumstances fairly regularly. Do ask him to slow down on how many of these he goes through if he can help it. I didn’t manage to abscond with more than a ream of this material and I can’t make more without a proper lab. The rest of his gadgets I can cobble together with commercial parts, but I’m quite limited when it comes to armor, I’m afraid. In fact, I have half a mind to have you send me his damaged shirt and see what I can salvage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve had worse ideas today. Get me the details and I’ll arrange it.” Yassen crossed his arms, refusing to let Smithers have complete control of the conversation. He had his own lingering questions. “My turn. Why did I have to hide the blood transfusion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers face tightened as he seemed to weigh his answer. “How much do you know about the interest in your blood?” he said eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At the time, only that there was any.” Yassen studied him. “Now, I’m aware of the genetic smoking gun it makes in the case of Estrov. I assume the other countries wanted it only to sell it to the Russians at a premium. But you knew about all of that if you contacted Vankin alongside the CIA, yet you asked me to hide the transfusion. I was already with Alex, ready to give them whatever they wanted to get him treatment. Why would they care? He wasn’t even born during the events I’m to testify to. Nothing from him would be admissible evidence. Why hide it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gadget man hissed through his teeth. “That’s… complicated to explain. Too much is uncertain for me to offer more than suspicions. The possibilities are really quite endless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen forced his hands to remain relaxed, when really all he wanted to do was coil with tension. Endless possibilities was not the answer he was hoping for. “Do you at least know if the issue is one of contagion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Contagion?” Smithers blinked before his eyes narrowed. “That’s an awfully specific word to choose. Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The apartment was quiet and dark when Alex got back. Strange. It made sense when he actually paused to think about it. Yassen had been half working from the flat for the last week, only leaving Alex unattended for a few hours at a time, but otherwise glued to his phone and computer when he was present. Alex knew only that it was a “project” he’d declined to go into detail on; the teen decided he didn’t really want to ask. His absence made a little more sense in that light. Eventually, Dima would at least want him to come into the office once in a while to make a show of translating things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Setting his backpack on the bench by the door, he flicked on the living room lights and padded over to the kitchen to consider the contents of the fridge. Lunch had been only an hour ago, but he’d only picked at his pasta salad and found himself craving something sweet. Crusty takeout boxes stared back at him, promising crunchy rice and too wet breading that would not see any textural improvement from a quick spin in the microwave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groaned and glanced at the front door. Going out into the cold for a small snack was less than appealing. Maybe he could text Yassen to bring him something on his way back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, that was assuming he’d be back anytime soon or that he wouldn’t be busy dealing with mafia problems because Alex had to go and get himself shot. Surely he’d be thrilled to have to cater to Alex while he laid about the apartment not doing anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mildly good mood plummeted suddenly. He rubbed absently at his hip before grabbing the remote off the countertop and waving it at the telly. It sprang to life, filling the uncomfortably silent room with the sound of the local news station. Setting it down, Alex irritably swept a few wrappers and styrofoam cartons out of the way. The clutter was really building, though it was kind of inevitable. On the run, they’d generally only spend a day or two in a motel room at a time and even longer stays like the grand canyon still featured occasionally allowing room service to enter. Humans created grime the way plants created oxygen, though. Another week or two and this place would be downright unsanitary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex tried to picture Yassen cleaning, wearing Jack’s orange polka dot apron and matching gloves. Choked back a laugh. No, that wasn’t going to happen. The assassin might have a tidy nature, but the former spy had never seen him scrub anything. Besides, Yassen was the type to outsource the stuff he didn’t want to deal with and just hire a maid service. Actually, now that he thought about it, the man probably wouldn’t want to do that either: giving anyone but them regular access to the apartment had been strictly forbidden in Yassen’s lectures on maintaining “homebase” security. No unscheduled maintenance men. No school friends. Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that housework was particularly hard. Jack had made a point of giving him his own chores, if only to ensure he could survive the irregular weeks when she returned to Washington for family visits. She’d called it his ‘eligible bachelor training’ and had rewarded his successes with trips to the closest ice cream parlor. He certainly wasn’t amazing at it, but once in a while he’d clean the fridge or something to make her life easier and earn himself some extra praise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a small thing. Yassen might not even notice, or more accurately, think it important enough to bother with if he hadn’t gotten around to it already. The man was a fastidious planner. Alex hesitated. Maybe it was a nice thing he could do to help, even if it didn’t contribute much? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grabbed his coat off the peg and checked his pockets, glancing up as he thought he spotted the weathered scales of a crocodile. His reptilian phantoms failed to make their presence known, so he went back to digging through his pockets. False alarm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As per usual, Yassen had given him more than double the amount of money he’d need on any given day and since he never asked for his change, it tended to add up quickly. He had quite the collection of rubles growing, though after a moment, he detoured into their home office to grab a few more bills from the day-to-day stash Yassen had shown him (which was in a different spot than the “emergency relocation” fund and the mind-bogglingly overt “bribes” fund). The fully furnished flat had come equipped with a small closet vacuum, duster, and a broom in the small walk in pantry, but not much in the realm of actual cleaning supplies. He vaguely remembered a shop on an adjacent street that probably had what he needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Extra long chapter today. Enjoy. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen fought the urge to throttle him. Questions answered with another question meant that he was onto something: contagion was close to the truth as Smithers knew it, but not quite. “Because, for just a moment after I gave him blood, I saw his chest covered in anthrax sores. They faded quickly. I wasn’t so tired that I hallucinated it, so what did I see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers rubbed his hand on his chin. “Well, I’m not a medical doctor, so I can’t say for sure. I can say that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely</span>
  </em>
  <span> unlikely that you’re carrying live anthrax, though. Otherwise, so much of this is uncertain, considering all the odd qualities of your sample, though I’m speaking more about the antibodies themselves. It is difficult to speak conclusively.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Summoning his patience took a beat. “Anthrax isn’t exactly the sort of thing you get a regular booster shot for. Of course my samples were unusual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps. They just get more nebulous the longer you examine them.” Smither hesitated. “It probably won’t be noticed, not if the SVR is just looking to confirm the DNA of the anthrax bacteria, but those antibodies you have are a lot more complex than they first appear. Only the Australians caught onto it, and only through one small sample, at least as far as I know-- my backdoor into their files closed a few weeks ago. At any rate, with all that’s going on, I imagine it’s best not to mention it to anyone, especially in conjunction with giving blood to Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s eyes narrowed. “Why are these antibodies important at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s quite complicated. I don’t want to sound definitive--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, you’ve thoroughly disclaimed your lack of knowledge. Give me your speculation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers waved a hand. “They just behave oddly. I mean, they shouldn’t even be in your blood at this age. Anthrax vaccinations aren’t good more than a year after injection-- the Russians wouldn’t have dreamt of considering them to prove your connection to Estrov if it hadn’t shown up in the CIA’s stolen blood samples from your arrest. These antibodies function differently than most associated only with anthrax. Possibly even permanently altered your immune system. It could be nothing, it could be a modern medicine holy grail. After all-- and this is rampant speculation so please don’t put much stock in it-- it sounds like this long lasting immunity might have transferred to Alex. Direct blood transfusions like what you did are rare, so this isn’t terribly well studied. I’m guessing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered that. “But you think it’s just been passed on to him through my blood? The immunity, not the anthrax.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers hesitated. “I suppose the closest comparison is when a baby is born, it often has passive immunities inherited from its mother for a few months. It’s not a perfect equivalent, but I wouldn’t necessarily worry. If it were live anthrax, he’d most certainly be dead already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen inclined his head. Contagion seemed unlikely now, though it weighed on his mind from time to time in absence of a proper explanation. Foolish of him. Anthrax moved fast; he’d seen it himself. If Alex or Yassen could infect anyone, the surgeons on the plane would have dropped like canaries in a coal mine. “And the need for secrecy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve no doubt that with the interest in your blood, the SVR will take an interest in the effect it has had on Alex if the Australians get chatty about their findings. I think we can both agree he does not need that scrutiny right now. At any rate, in about a hundred more days, it won’t matter. His body will have processed and removed everything you passed to him. Just keep your mouth shut.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers cleared his throat and glanced around the silent banya. Shifted on his feet slightly. “Now, I know this is your meeting, but I’m taking advantage. Alex very much needs to testify, for all of our best interests.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen set his jaw, tucking the iPod into his pocket. As tempted as he still was to just shoot the man in the head for pulling that Hunter-accusation stunt in the first place, he had to admit that Smithers hadn’t been actually trying to elicit the humiliating response he’d gotten. At least nothing he’d said had any real tactical value, not in most people’s hands. Not compared to the information he’d received in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By this point, Yassen was fast on his way to becoming too burnt out to be capable of embarrassment much longer. He hoped. “I still won’t make him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers snorted. “No one can make that boy do anything. Not for long. No, I just think it best to explain some other developments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go on then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, first of all, I’m sure you’re wondering why I insisted we meet in person. Especially given your, ah, shall we say, ‘leave no witnesses’ approach to intelligence agents?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Denial would gain him nothing. Yassen inclined his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the truth is that MI6 has not remained idle since you and Alex left prison. I don’t have nearly the same access that I once had to their backend, but I have managed to worm my way into the CIA’s. Since much of your time on the run was spent on their home soil, the cooperation required between the two agencies has given me insight.” Smithers grimaced. “They’re compiling evidence against you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t so much as blink. “I’d have never guessed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers gave him a wry look. “Video evidence, specifically. The CIA hasn’t found much, apart from a handful of quick glimpses at the odd bus stop here or there, but that’s not what concerns me.” The gadget man sighed and crossed his arms. “His iPod’s signal interrupter leaves quite the distinctive calling card, even if it took them a while to catch on. They’ve managed to find several files that match it from police reports by private businesses. A clinic. A pharmacy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why does it matter?” Yassen crossed his arms over his torso. “If the cameras didn’t pick up anything, it should be irrelevant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers winced. “That’s not how this works. It doesn’t deactivate the recording functions of other devices, it simply…” he waved a hand in the air as he searched for the right word. “...complicates them with it’s own signal. Rather than preventing the cameras from picking up the images, it simply adds to it until the data is a useless white noise. Like mixing paint to form a new but useless color. Encryption. However, buried underneath all the algorithms, the original data still remains.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it’s hackable,” Yassen said coldly. “They can reverse engineer the added ‘paint color’, so to speak, and view the original videos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not easily, even with a super computer, but possible. Given enough time.” Smithers gave him a considering look. “I imagine if Alex was using the device, he was concealing something he didn’t want any of the intelligence agencies to see. Since he said you provided him with drugs after Scottsdale, I take it that it wasn’t his own actions he was trying to cover.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen spread his hands. “It will hardly be the first shred of evidence they have against me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it will create a legitimate reason for them to cast doubts on Alex’s safety. Maybe not enough to extradite him back to England, but to at least insist he be removed from living with you. Even if our new friends in the SVR ignore those accusations, it will weaken their position if anyone asks why they failed to put him in a state facility rather than with the main suspect in his uncle’s murder. My evidence that he’s a former child spy won’t look strong if it only comes from the SVR under those conditions. If Alex testifies </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>MI6 can make anything useful out of the video files, there’s little for you or the SVR to lose. Any evidence MI6 can produce of your criminal activity that late in the game will look heavily manufactured and impossibly convenient in the face of their charges.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t prevent them from bringing it forward anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If they can get it, no. But it will weaken its impact if they do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Won’t they claim that Alex is unsafe with me anyway?” Yassen snorted. “Committing crimes in America only changes the scenery, compared to the rest of my suspected record.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers lips thinned. “They can’t necessarily prove you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yassen Gregorovich from afar, nor can they risk tying you to any serious crimes before your incarceration. Not legally, without hurting themselves. From what I’ve gleaned, several intelligence agencies received news of your death, but only the CIA knew it was a lie. Unless MI6 wishes to admit to concealing your incarceration </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> answer questions about their human rights violation of a secret prison in Gibraltar, which undoubtedly still holds inmates of great importance, they can’t afford to accuse you of being Yassen Gregorovitch, top Scorpia contractor.” Smithers held up a hand. “But if they can prove that you are a dangerous criminal, it won’t matter who you really are. It would be enough to cast powerful doubts on his safety, not to mention make you both highly visible on an international scale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen set his jaw. “Doubts are inconsequential. They will not extradite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But the SVR will be asked to explain. Due to the Hague Convention, refusing the extradition of kidnapped children is illegal unless they can justify why. Since the bank technically is his guardian now, MI6 likely won’t draw attention to any issues of his custody, but it doesn’t matter. Even if they half-heartedly attempt to extradite him, your friends in the SVR still have to explain why they refused to comply, not just to the international community, but to their own internal enemies.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. “Explain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers folded his arms, shifting on his feet slightly. “Certain members of the Russian government may begin asking why Alex Rider and Yassen Gregorovich are under such staunch SVR protection together. Your presence can be chalked up to the mafia and Scorpia playing nicely with the government, as they often do, but how does an ex-child spy with dangerous ties to two of the three organizations come in? The SVR doesn’t need that kind of attention from their own government, not in the middle of preparing a coup. Alex testifying makes quite the convenient excuse for the agency, you see; ignore a slew of crimes that you committed in exchange for taking potshots at an intelligence rival on a world stage. Without such a smoke screen, the Estrov case risks early exposure if everyone begins asking what the SVR is up to. Alex is certainly not worth that risk to Abramoff even if he loses you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled. As much as he hated it, the gadget man’s position made sense. Too much sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone, Yassen could be recognized in Russia by anyone in the government with little ill effect: he was still assumed to be under Scorpia’s employ and the SVR had contracted through them before, certainly. His mafia ties would only add more credence to the appearance that he was here on standard criminal business. It only looked strange compared to the rumors he’d left the organization, but anyone curious enough to dig wouldn’t be inclined to look anywhere as far-fetched as his childhood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But with Alex in tow…. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be obvious that the boy was being sheltered if MI6 made an issue over Alex being in Russia at all. All they really had to do was draw attention to him. If they located him, basic observation alone would quickly tie the boy to Yassen, and then back to the SVR should anyone ask for their cover names and find it among the ‘repatriated spies’ list. Moles were inevitable. Yes, MI6 would undoubtedly risk making themselves look bad if the SVR fired back with child-blackmail accusations, but their plays were increasingly desperate and they could inflict a lot of pain without even meaning to. Increased attention towards them would necessitate any interested parties going over both his and Alex’s pasts with a fine tooth comb for their connection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one so far had been remotely satisfied with Yassen’s explanation of a debt to his father, including Yassen himself. Since Ash had found a mention of Estrov in MI6’s files on Yassen, no doubt provided by John, who was linked to him in at least a dozen old files... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coup would be blown wide open. Abramoff would never risk it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers was right: prosecuting MI6 for Alex’s exploitation made a great explanation as to what they were doing here. If the SVR hadn’t gotten wind of Smither’s impending charges yet, they would undoubtedly soon and when they did, Yassen had no doubt Alex would face the same pressure from them to testify once they realized just how viable of an excuse it made. Gridlocking them into safety with the mafia contract had protected them, yes, but it had also made them highly visible in a way that made the SVR nervous. Yassen’s name was already connected to Estrov in MI6’s files, so who knew how many other countries might have that critical link buried in their information too, just waiting for the right operative to ask the right question at the wrong time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could kill the entire case. Yassen had no doubt the SVR would drop him like a compromised rock before they would allow their political enemies to be aware of their ambitions. Maybe eliminate Alex and him both in the interest of being thorough, if they decided to scrap the Estrov idea altogether and move on to some plan B. His relationships with Scorpia and the mafia were both too new to rely on to shelter them so extensively, and even if the SVR abandoned them without fanfare or violence, it would leave Alex vulnerable to the legal machinations of MI6. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was unavoidable. Alex had to testify.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. Took a slow deep breath.  “He stays in Russia. His involvement is minimal. No in person court appearances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers opened his mouth, eyebrows drawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen held up a finger. “Video conferencing, maybe. Interviews, certainly. But no pulling him out of school, to shove him on a plane, to sit in a strange courtroom, to then be interrogated by bureaucrats who want to use him for their own agendas. Not if I can’t join him without being whisked off myself to face prosecution.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers nodded heavily. “Agreed. As little disruption as possible. Please believe me, this wasn’t my first choice. Well, rather, it wasn’t my second or third. I’d love for him to never think about this again, but Jones is well on her way to becoming Alan Blunt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Child spy recruitments. She’s been examining students, from what I understand. Youngest was twelve.” Smithers stared at him, eyes a little dull and the crows feet beneath them seeming to deepen. “Once was bad enough. I can’t let it keep happening. Not if there’s anything I can do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just don’t burn up what’s left of Alex’s life to save those of nameless others.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers gave him a grim smile. “No, of course not. You won’t let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stepped forward to retrieve his items in a clear signal that this meeting was over. He was so sick of having his internal self and his motivations be so exposed, for what felt like no good reason. Perhaps it could be used to his advantage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Complaining to Dr. Wood had felt a bit similar, yet had earned him her trust and assistance. Perhaps his embarrassing ramble could earn him some of Smithers’. His mind turned to the little iPod now tucked in his pocket. The man was certainly a valuable ally, if one with radically different goals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chert. If he’d known in advance that this gridlock would require him to share so much personal information and form relationships, he’d have reconsidered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eyed the gadget man out of the corner of his eye. “What do you think it really is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” the man said, starting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The reason I’m looking after Alex,” Yassen said, keeping his voice smooth and conversational as he grabbed his thrings from the locker. “Everyone has a guess and yours isn’t nostalgia. What is it then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers raised an eyebrow as Yassen stepped away to let him retrieve his own items. “Oh, I think you’re just fond of him. He’s very likeable, if besieged by problems. I think you wanted to help him, so you did, and now you’ve gone and gotten attached. It’s rather mundane, of course. I can see why everyone is looking for a more exciting answer.” With a rueful smile, he gently tapped one of the small lockers to his right before he turned to go. “A few more gifts for Alex. He’ll know what they do. Good luck, Mr. Gregorovich. I think you’re going to need it as much as I do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thirty minutes later, Alex dropped his bags on the counter and scowled at them while he rubbed warmth back into his frosty nose and cheeks. Winter in Moscow was awful. Period. Nothing else. There were no redeeming qualities that he could see, apart from the occasional festive light display and ice sculptures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stomped over to adjust the thermostat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With no more reason to delay, Alex fished out his little tincture and knocked back a few drops beneath his tongue. If he was going to spend his afternoon on something as dull as cleaning, he was going to be high. Sure, it’d probably take twice as long if he kept getting distracted by the telly or how funny his hands looked but it wasn’t as though he really had anything better to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately, he’d planned ahead: the final bag included his motivation for completing the work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tincture turned out to be a good choice. Despite the monotony, he found himself growing thoroughly entertained as he gathered up the various bits of trash sprinkled across the apartment as though a windstorm had wound its way through a cheap food court. A rhythm formed to the gathering. Wrapper, wrapper, napkin. He chuckled to himself, only half annoyed to find another one on the floor beside his own bed. How did napkins migrate so voraciously? He crumpled it and tossed it in the bin. It must be seasonal. They were quite the intrepid travelers, spreading into every room in the house despite having no real business invading. He stuffed them all into the first of several large trash bags, cheerfully bid them good luck on their next grand adventure down the garbage chute before returning to the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he could see the actual surfaces of the flat, he realized this cleaning spree was long overdue. Every spill of sauce and dusting of crumbs had chronicled themselves on the countertops, coffee table, and seats like some kind of gross culinary history of whatever they’d ordered over the last week and a half. One or two bits even looked moldy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wrinkled his nose, twisted up his hair, and set to work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a few attempts on his iPod’s shuffle mode to figure it out, but soon enough Alex had settled on his new favorite High Cleaning genre. ‘Space Rock’ was the official listed description that Alex double checked twice but happily steered into as he made his way through the flat, spraying down surfaces and scrubbing with the beat as he went. Dusting took about as long, though Alex mentally kicked himself for forgetting to do it first: cleaning from top to bottom had been one of the first rules he’d learned. Now that he’d knocked loose a bunch of dust, Alex had to wipe off all the counters again, grumbling as he did it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a small peek into the final bag as he passed. Soon. He patted it and got back to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he’d moved on to floors, Alex had gotten decidedly lazier. The tincture had definitely hit his system by now. He flicked a longing glance at the couch. Hardwood floors could be vacuumed, right? He swept out the corners with the broom at as much of a run as he could manage without irritating his hip, making soft whooshing noises under his breath. The vacuum got the worst of the pile, even though he had to finish it with the broom and pan to get all the bits. Alex realized with a jolt that they’d have to buy a mop if the floors were going to get more than a passing clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eh. Nothing he could do about it now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flat looked far better already, but Alex knew if he let himself stop he’d sink into the couch for the rest of the night. Hopefully, he was close to done. What else had gotten bad?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groaned, realizing he’d completely forgotten about the bathrooms and bedrooms. Damn. Laundry was the inevitable, easy next step. Gathering the ever growing piles spilling around his hamper, he dumped his clothes and bath towels into the machine and poured in a guess-timated amount of soap. It occurred to him that they had measurements for that sort of thing on the lid. Oops. Extra soap meant extra clean, probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the hiss of water started up, Alex realized with another start that he’d done things a little out of order. Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d already run the trash out, but he’d forgotten to empty the actual bins scattered about the flat. That was probably a wise idea, since he knew for a fact that some of them were overflowing. The kitchen one had, hence the litter’s spread onto every other nearby surface as both occupants of the apartment had switched to piling it nearby in lieu of solving the actual problem. At least it was a fast job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arms full of bags a minute later, he paused beside Yassen’s ajar door. Should he go in and gather the trash? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes had passed over both bedrooms before now, but now that it was time to actually clean them, he found himself reluctant to go into Yassen’s. Why? He and Yassen had shared dozens of rooms, so it wasn’t like they weren’t used to being in each other’s space. It just felt strange. Maybe it was because he’d never gone in or even really thought about the room. Yassen slept far less than any sane person (lending credence to Alex’s speculation that the man was secretly a robot) so he hadn’t actually seen the man retire to bed or get up in the morning. Hell, for all Alex knew, Yassen slept in the pantry, hanging upside down from the rafters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His room might as well be the Twilight Zone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorted. Now that he thought about it, he’d never really made a habit of going into anyone else’s room… ever. Ian’s rooms and office had been strictly off limits whilst Jack’s had been a foreign territory full of scented candles and pointless, decorative throw pillows; Alex conducted his business (usually fetching something) and left quickly. Privacy was certainly something Alex respected, but he knew with a sudden clarity that Yassen wouldn’t care or even consider his bedroom… his. The man was oddly literal in some ways: he probably just saw it as the room containing the bed he used, not some refuge of personal space distinct from the rest of the flat. Texting him for permission to enter would be weird for the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, well. At least he’d gotten to the root of the weird feeling. Alex pushed open the door. He’d just grab the trash and go, not stick around to rifle through his possessions or anything like that. Yassen’s hypothetical privacy would be protected in Alex’s mind and the trash would go out. Win-win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He froze in the doorway, blinking furiously. “What?” he muttered aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room itself was mostly tidy to the point of looking uninhabited: the king sized bed was half unmade in an obvious signal of use, but the small entertainment center, dresser, and desk seemed wholly untouched. Alex was unsurprised by that bit-- Yassen didn’t watch much TV on his own and Alex had the big one in the living room turned on almost constantly. No. What really startled him was the small wire bin set beside the man’s immaculate dresser, now overflowing with clothes. It half blocked the door to his private bathroom; no doubt, Yassen had to step over it to shave and shower in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brows knitted, Alex contemplated the pile as his brain struggled to parse what he was seeing. He actually removed his earbuds as though reducing audio interference would help his neurons work better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just so uncharacteristically slobbish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No… not slobbish. More like incongruously practical?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the run, they had simply tossed their clothes as they’d gotten dirty and bought new ones. Most motels didn’t come with washers and dryers in their rooms anyway, not that they would have used them since they’d constantly changed appearances. Alex hadn’t questioned Yassen’s continued trips from the flat to buy more clothes for them in Moscow. It just hadn’t struck him as odd. He’d simply noted the growing pile on his own bedroom floor with the intent to toss them in the washer eventually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back towards the hallway, visually confirming that the pantry’s washer was less than six feet from Yassen’s door. It wasn’t hidden. There was even a small dryer beside it, so it couldn’t be laziness or the absence of a drying line that deterred the man. He hadn’t even tossed the trash to get rid of the problem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What? Why? How--?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It struck Alex suddenly. Had it really been so long since Yassen had lived anywhere with permanence that he’d just </span>
  <em>
    <span>forgotten</span>
  </em>
  <span> these things? That garbage had to go out, that bathrooms had to be cleaned, and that laundry could be washed instead of discarded? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had said that he’d worked for the last decade and a half without any real breaks between jobs. At the prison, the cleaning staff had taken care of their rooms too. It made as much sense as it broke Alex’s brain. Despite the man’s ruthless competence and seeming capability to do anything, he’d somehow lost what Alex considered the inherently mundane and adult-defining ability to keep house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a little bit sad, unintentionally funny, and quite a bit strange. Very Yassen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex upturned the little garbage basket with a sigh and gathered up all the clothes. Luckily for him, Yassen hadn’t attempted to discard anything else in the same bin so it was easy enough to put them in a large pile on the man’s bed. He checked the bathroom quickly and had to give a disbelieving laugh. Dragging an </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual empty</span>
  </em>
  <span> wicker laundry hamper into the other room, Alex filled it and set it in the hallway, next in line for the machine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grumble, he returned to the kitchen for his cleaning solutions and gloves. Toilets were never fun.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! I hope everyone is staying safe and hydrated. :D Also, a big thanks to everyone who comments on Mondays before I've posted-- the push notifications to my email help remind me to post before midnight. You guys are the best!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen fumbled with his house keys, tapping the fob against the pad as he input the code. What had been a fairly active day was now coming to an end; apart from his less than ideal meeting with Smithers, he’d gone to the business tower to confirm the success of the Malaga job with Dima and to ensure he was prepared to make his report to Sergey. It hadn’t taken more than a few hours to sort out the actual details, but of course nothing with Dima was ever brief. Before Yassen knew it, the man was parading him through his office floor and introducing him as his new interpreter to what felt like every single damn employee in the building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He half rolled his eyes at the memory. Dima was almost certainly doing it for show, though he’d seemed to take a small dose of personal delight in Yassen’s annoyance at being shown off like a puppy at a preschool. Not for the first time, he wondered if Dima had once had a younger sibling; it would certainly explain the persistent soft spot he’d grown for the lost fourteen year old he’d grifted at a train station a few decades back. It was consistent with the impression Dima wanted to give to the rest of the bratva, anyway: vague nepotism as an excuse to not just hire him, but to keep Yassen at his side for no real reason. Of course, Yassen would need some time to explore the rift between Dima and his father in law that necessitated Dima wanting to circle the wagons with such an obscure friend as Yassen, but he’d have to shore up more intimacy between himself and Dima before he could expect the man not to give him half-truths and other reassuring lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen needed answers, not bravado.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shoving open the front door, he froze. His first instinct was to draw his weapon or check for whatever civilian was nearby, waiting for Yassen to realize he’d walked into the wrong apartment, but the logical part of his brain was perfectly aware that he’d not only recognized his flat number but had also used a very unique code--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just too clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, mostly. Dressed in his pajamas, Alex perched on the couch in front of the coffee table which was now littered with shiny foil wrappers and half finished candies. MTV blared in the background. The boy munched pensively on a bit of rolled cake and stared at the contract killer, a tiny, untidy ponytail gathered atop his head and sticking out in all directions like one of those horrible Troll dolls. He hummed around his mouthful. “Close the door. You’re letting out the heat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen did as urged, glancing around at the gleaming surfaces again. For a split second, he was tempted to scold Alex for hiring someone who undoubtedly had to enter the apartment without alerting him, but the scattered bottles of cleaner near the boy and the yellow plastic gloves tossed casually over his shoulder clued him in. “Did you clean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded, his awful little ponytail bobbing with the motion. “A bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can clean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not that spoiled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a new hobby of yours?” Yassen asked him, tugging off his coat slowly and raising an eyebrow. “High cleaning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy stuck out a chocolate smeared tongue and glanced back at the telly. “Maybe. It needed to get done. Getting high made it less boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the candies?” Yassen asked, amused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Made sure I finished what I was doing even though I was high. I know how I get,” Alex admitted sheepishly. The television drew his attention again for a split second, though he held up his handful of cake. “Want a bite? It’s pretty nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head and went over to the counter to rifle through their ever growing stash of takeaway menus. At least this little round of bizarre inebriation behaviors was convenient and probably harmless; Yassen was neither confident in his ability nor willing to try and indulge any cowboy fantasies in the heart of Moscow. “Assuming you haven’t spoiled your appetite, we should order dinner. Any opinions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything sounds amazing,” Alex assured him without pause, taking another bite of his cake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t doubt it. At least Alex would gain weight if he kept this up. The contract killer hunted about for the cordless telephone before remembering it was probably in the office. He stepped into the hallway and halted. “What is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard a snicker before Alex’s feet thudded against the floor behind him. The boy skidded to a halt in front of him, throwing up his arms as though introducing a grand exhibit. Definitely high. He gestured to the pantry, where a steady bouncing hum emanated from the appliances within. “Look what I found! It’s this magic machine that washes things--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I gathered that,” Yassen told him, flicking the brat’s stupid little ponytail in an effort to appease the part of himself that wanted to chop it off every time he laid eyes on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex batted his hand away. “If you’re asking about the baskets, that’s our clean laundry. My powers of domestication don’t extend to folding. It’s not that I can’t do it, I’m just too lazy. Our sheets are still washing, though. Last thing. I just got impatient and started in on my sweets anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen looked again at his basket of laundry. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were out of clothes? I can buy you more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a look Yassen couldn’t quite decipher before it was quickly replaced with an amused one. “I’m not out of clean clothes, I’m out of floor space for dirty ones. You can wash them instead of throwing them away, you know. It’s kind of the plan. What they’re made for. What the magic machine is made for,” he said, gesturing grandly at it again. He contemplated the bare shelves of the pantry above the appliances for a second or so. “We should also get groceries soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Groceries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Yassen. Food that can sit for more than a day or two without tasting like it’s passed through Satan’s arsehole and into the perishables afterlife.” Alex shrugged at his baffled look. “I would have picked them up myself when I was out, but I couldn’t carry that much so I focused on the cleaning supplies. It was getting gross in here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen looked at the piles of washing again, still struggling internally. “So you cleaned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex squinted at him. “That’s usually how you solve that problem.” He snorted suddenly. “Don’t tell me we were going to switch apartments when this one got dirty enough. That can’t have been your plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassn didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just something he hadn’t really considered. Apart from the steadily growing pile in his room that he kept meaning to dispose of, he hadn’t really stopped to think about… domestic upkeep? He paid people for that, usually. If he wasn’t trekking through uninhabited terrain, moving between an endless sea of rented rooms, or stuck in prison, he would be at a Scorpia facility where such things were provided for automatically anyway. When was the last time he’d had to clean anything other than a firearm? Or remember to track the state of his environment in regards to how much scrubbing it would take to return it to normal? Probably at Sharkovsky’s dacha, but that had little to do with his own needs nor did it rely on Yassen’s assessment; it had just been tasks assigned to fill his time and avoid a beating. Living with Dima had been short and he’d only ever bathed once during that time, much less considered laundry or tidying. He’d once helped his mother with those chores, of course, but that was back when he was younger than Alex was now. All he could really remember was the breeze cooling his damp hands as he handed his mother clothes to hang on the line, the sun warm on his back...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll do the housework, you do the other stuff that keeps us alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen had to suppress the urge to kick his laundry basket of clean clothes down the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was such an idiot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the basic, simple things to forget about-- of all the problems to stare him right in the face-- this was probably the most infuriating. What had his plan been? Just let the garbage pile up until there were rats and cockroaches milling about? Let Alex live in squalor, especially when his living situation was inevitably going to face scrutiny when he testified against MI6?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, god. He was not looking forward to that conversation, not after having already fucked up something as simple as sanitary living conditions. Alex hadn’t sounded upset or resentful at having to do it all by himself, despite recovering from his injuries and the added stress of school, but that was probably just the cannabis cushioning the boy from realizing just how much Yassen had neglected his basic needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Yassen had any more of a plan than he did a minute ago. Housekeeping was such a small thing but their current situation made it next to impossible for him to outsource. On the road, it hadn’t mattered since Yassen never selected hotel rooms in advance or took obvious routes. In such obscurity, a random maid entering their room posed little threat. Stuck in the city and known to multiple powerful forces, it was unlikely he could even trust an independently hired housekeeper to avoid being compromised long-term, but rotating them was just as impractical considering how much work had to be done to vet each one. Hiring even a well-reputed service would just give an assassin a feasible form of access to their abode. It was always the hired help or the unexpected friend that brought down home security: Yassen had taken advantage of the same weakness dozens of times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would just have to figure something else out. He’d spent his entire teens cleaning; surely, he could pick it up again. God help him, he’d launch them both into the heart of the sun before he allowed Alex’s teen years resemble Yassen’s own. Even if he didn’t really have the time, he’d have to find a way to figure out this cleaning stuff again around his working schedule that he’d just cemented with Dima today and whatever the SVR wanted and looking after--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nudged him, brows knit in something like concern. “Alright there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need a drink.” Yassen grabbed a quarter full clear bottle off the top shelf of the pantry, ironically one of the only things filling it, and strode back into the living room. A smoke and a drink would help him settle his internal roiling and evaluate what it is he had to do and if there was any  way to get around it. He shoved open the balcony door and stepped into the biting cold, grabbed the glass cigarette dish he’d left on the snow covered patio table and stared at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was also clean, now free of the ash and butts that had built up in it over the last few weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great. Just how much time and effort had Alex had to waste today? Yassen unscrewed the bottle and drank from it directly. Surely there had to be some sort of liquor store that would do deliveries--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned his head and caught Alex’s reflection. The boy looked visibly upset. It was probably the dawning realization that Yassen was just winging it, really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something inside of him cringed. He hadn’t really allowed himself to ponder too long on just how Alex’s Assassin Batman commentary had affected him, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he’d been reassured that Alex obviously found him capable. A little pleased. That attitude was surely taking a hit tonight. It was kind of a miracle that child-like belief in Alex had survived so long; in fact, it was probably reckless of Yassen to have let it go on without a stern correction, but he didn’t want Alex to waste effort worrying or hesitate to come to Yassen with his problems…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it had felt nice. Flattering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inner self-flagellation obviously wasn’t doing anything to wipe that look off the boy’s face. With a sigh, Yassen set his cigarette in the tray and waved the boy over. “What’s on your mind?” he asked as Alex tugged open the door, not entirely sure how to start the conversation without resorting to something as pathetic as an apology.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chewed on the inside of his cheek, leaning against the frame. “Are you mad that I cleaned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re upset that I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize it was such a problem,” Yassen ground out. He grimaced. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Why? It’s not that big a deal. I only realized how bad it was today. It got messy, you said you didn’t want strangers coming into the flat, so I spent a few hours cleaning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, is that what this is?” Alex groaned, but some of the tension left him, oddly enough. His tone took on an exasperated edge that made Yassen grit his teeth. “This not worrying thing again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> worry about stupid stuff sometimes, including me worrying. I’m not that fragile or weak, you know. You can ask me to do things. I don’t mind cleaning. It’s not hard. I’ll keep doing it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t. You should focus on your schoolwork. On getting healthy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex studied him from underneath his mop of hair. “You know I had chores and things while I was in school, right? I also had football and karate and a load of other extracurriculars. Even after MI6, I still helped Jack out. I have the time, trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to do extra schoolwork then,” Yassen countered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doubted Alex would have the hours or energy to spare once he had to start testifying. It could easily consume their schedules and would undoubtedly rock the stability of the boy’s mental health. Tears felt inevitable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt a small hollow in his chest. How best could he bridge that conversation?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have to do extra schoolwork now. Not all at once. I tested high enough in most things that I only have to do a bit of summer term to catch up. I don’t even have to since most students stay until they’re eighteen here, plus loads of students my age at Goldstone are a year behind because of curriculum differences anyway. I’m only half of one.” Alex gave him an uncertain, half-smile. “Those math problems you made me do might have helped. Maybe. School is going to be fine. Lada introduced me to someone in one of my weaker subject classes so I’ve already got someone to study with. It’ll be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen chewed that over, well aware of how closely Alex was watching him. “It’s better that you not have anything in your way. It’ll only take one bad semester--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it nearly caused him pain. “Cleaning’s so easy, Yassen. It’s a normal thing to expect me to do. I don’t mind it. It won’t hurt me. If it’s too much, I’ll say something, but I don’t think it will be until exams and then only maybe. Why are you fighting me on this? Am I that useless? Do you think I’ll mess everything up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled at the city lights. “I should have accounted for this already. It shouldn’t be your problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m making at least half of the mess, so yes, it should be my problem.” Alex dragged in a breath, wrapping his arms around himself from the cold. Yassen was about to scold him for not grabbing his coat when he went on. “Forgetting about something as mundane as cleaning is a stupid thing to get hung up on. It really is. Besides, when was the last time in the last decade you had to think about running a house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked. “That’s not the point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> point. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> point.” Alex began dancing on his feet in the doorway, ignoring Yassen’s waving motions trying to send him further inside to warm up. “On top of it being a stupid, random thing you haven’t had to think about in ages, it’s also another annoying thing to add to your gridlock pile and mafia job. I don’t love cleaning, but I’m happy to do it if it makes things easier for you. Christ. I know this stuff with the SVR, Scorpia, and Dima gets complicated, so at least let me be a little bit useful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something jogged Yassen’s memory. Let him be useful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chert. Briar’s advice ages ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen could have kicked himself. Weeks ago he’d gotten the advice to make Alex feel like he could contribute value in order to keep him calm and happy. It had worked, in a way: coming up with their food system and looking after the coyote pup had both provided Alex some distraction from his constant anxiety. Since arriving in Moscow it was obvious that the boy still obviously craved it. Yassen hadn’t replaced it with everything else that was going on, but it seemed like Alex was invested enough in his current situation to go searching for opportunities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was a good sign?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He studied the still shivering boy out of the corner of his eye. If Alex was telling the truth about his coursework, it might not be the worst thing to have him push a broom around once in a while. Yassen could certainly try to produce less clutter to keep the boy’s work burden low. Set limits on the amount of time he could invest on the task. He would have to monitor the situation, of course, but for now it would do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t exactly a crippling reminder of his life as a slave laborer if it was a light, strategic, and carefully presented choice designed to keep Alex occupied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Yassen stubbed out his cigarette and waved Alex inside, stepping forward to force the boy in the right direction. “Tell me more about school and how justified I was in making you study....”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! As always, I love your comments, curse my own poor reply time, and hope that everyone is staying healthy and hydrated!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex shut his notebook and nodded to his lab partner, Misha. “Okay. Done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Snapping the case shut, the other boy stood to return their lab supplies to their physics instructor. Mr. Wendell was a tanned Australian who looked like he’d be more at ease demonstrating physics through extreme sports rather than through the series of weights and pendulums he’d distributed earlier. The man set their equipment aside and crossed them off his list, in between fielding the returns of the other groups of students converging on his desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A digital chime rang across the speakers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re dismissed. Go on. Don’t forget to read chapter eight tonight,” he called over it. A flurry of shuffling and footsteps greeted him back. “Practice questions are listed on the syllabus. I won’t check them, but I recommend you do them anyway if you’re struggling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shoved his things into his backpack, eager to get to lunch. The first half of his day would be spent on one hour core subject lessons (Math, Science, English, and Reading) before he got his lunch period. Following that, he’d have a small study hour (in lieu of a physical fitness class) followed by his remaining three elective courses: French (a guaranteed good score to keep Yassen happy), Watercolors, and the completely mandatory Russian Immersion. His first four classes had all gone well; apart from having to stand and introduce himself by his Russian stripper name without flinching, he’d settled in without too much trouble or fanfare. Plenty of the information looked vaguely familiar, for the most part. Each class had fifteen students or less so he was hardly left wanting for individual attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It reminded him greatly of Cairo College still, in that the instructors were obviously used to getting students caught up quickly and seamlessly, though their attitude was a bit more formal than it had been in Egypt. Teachers were always ‘sir’ or ‘miss’ and forgetting to raise your hand would generally get you scolded if not outright ignored. Still, Alex supposed it could be worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Misha tapped his arm as Alex streamed out into the hallway behind the rest of the students. He pulled him aside by the door. “I saw you sitting with Timofey Nikulov yesterday. You know him how exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinked. There hadn’t been anything outright hostile in his tone, it had just been more direct than he’d expected.  “Our parents work together. Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Misha nodded, about to say something else, before seeming to think better of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that had probably just branded him a junior criminal. Alex spared a moment to wonder how many children were aware of what their parents did, or what the relationships between the different mafias meant. Most probably had some idea. Another thought occurred to him: if his real name ever became public at school, he might have to figure out who Drevin’s associates had been. Yassen said it likely wouldn’t come up, but now Alex was a touch paranoid. He’d have to be careful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “Why do you ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His group… they have a reputation for being… strange.” Misha paused after that, eyes flicking to Alex’s long hair, brushed back into a half up tie. “I do not know the proper word. Strange in... ways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lada had implied that her dual identity was somewhat of a known secret. The twins had suggested as much with their complaints. Alex realized he might have to do some more digging to find out what was okay to discuss on a practical level. Dima obviously wanted strict silence outside of the home, but that didn’t mean other teenagers wouldn’t talk. Alex would make himself look untrustworthy by not acknowledging common knowledge. He’d have to mind that, though it only occurred to him now that his long hair might build more even more “strange” associations he didn’t plan on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he particularly cared. His reputation wasn’t something he had the luxury of getting attached to since MI6 started dragging him out of school. Even so, this hair thing was obviously a bigger deal than he’d assumed. A handful of boys at Brookland wore theirs long, to the ire of the administration and absolutely no one else, though they all seemed to be into heavy metal or something similar. Here, he hadn’t missed the way everyone’s eyes seemed transfixed on it with varying grades of disapproval or dismay. Well, except for the international students; they hardly seemed to notice at all. Maybe it was just a Russian thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only Alex knew why he still couldn’t bear the thought of getting it clipped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure what you mean. Everyone is strange,” Alex said shrugging, “at least in some way or another. Timofey’s friends all seem nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Misha seemed a bit dissatisfied by that answer but didn’t get a chance to pry further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sasha Lebedev to the main reception please,” a pleasant female voice announced over the loudspeaker. “Sasha Lebedev to the main reception.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave Misha a quick goodbye before switching directions to respond to his summons, detouring only briefly to the toilets to take his oxycontin discreetly out of sight of the security cameras and fire off a quick text to Yassen about the dosage.  Mrs. Zhuk, the head secretary, greeted him when he stepped up to the counter alongside a giggling trio of girls accepting a stack of bulletins to distribute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you are, I’m glad you heard our message. I was about to send someone.” She handed him a small slip of paper as the other girls filed out, leaving the small student affairs section of the office empty. “We just got a last minute reservation at the study lab. It looks like one of the instructors is going to hold an activity there for the rest of the week, so independent study is moving to the library until further notice. Don’t forget to check in with Mr. Avilov, the librarian, when you arrive or you will be marked truant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am.” Alex took the slip of paper and turned to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced back down at her computer. “Oh, and Sasha: tell your father we confirmed there will be no openings in the Dedov Dormitories this semester. We tried to call him to follow up, but he did not answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Alex said, turning back to her. “No openings where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the Dedov Dormitories,” she repeated. Seeing his blank expression, she gestured to one of the posters tacked to the bulletin board behind him and went back to her computer screen. Local Student Accomodations was printed along the top. The featured images were of a posh, modern looking building and smiling twenty-something models clutching unlabeled books and pretending to be teenagers. “It’s a few miles away. Not owned by the school; we just have an agreement with them for secure transport to and from campus. It’s quite small, only sixteen residents, but very nice. We only just heard back from their housing specialist and there are no scheduled openings for at least another six months, not at the security level your father requested.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex felt his stomach drop into a vast void of nothingness. “When did he inquire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” She squinted at him. “When he enrolled you, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Of course.” Alex swallowed and turned to go. “I’ll pass it along.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the day passed in a haze, though Alex made a concerted effort to focus on his instructors at least long enough to be left to his own devices in class. A few drops of his tincture hadn’t done anything to quell his growing sea of thoughts, writhing and coiling like eels in the pit of his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been right. Yassen wanted to leave him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex had been so stupid to think there was anything he could do about it. To think there was any way he could stall or delay the inevitable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was sick of dealing with him, or maybe his own problems had caught up to him and he just didn’t have the monumental amount of time and effort free anymore. It would have been nice had Yassen just told him directly, but he probably just didn’t want Alex to freak out and cry again. Maybe that’s why he’d been so resistant to the idea of Alex cleaning, why he hadn’t bothered arranging for it to begin with: if his plan had gone his way, Alex would have been stashed in the high-security equivalent of a boarding school while Yassen was free to be on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t summon any significant anger at the man; that he reserved strictly for himself. How could he be such an idiot? The writing was on the wall the whole time, yet Alex had foolishly tried to to help out. Like puttering around their flat with window cleaner would do a damn thing about their problems or make Yassen’s life any easier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stupid, stupid, stupid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have never allowed himself to relax. Yassen didn’t really want to take care of him, he just liked Alex fine and needed a distraction. Even without all these agencies hovering over their shoulders because he’d gotten shot, it was utterly dim-witted of Alex to think that his stupid, mundane problems would be of any interest to the man for more than a few months. Yassen was used to traveling the world, negotiating for millions of dollars, and earning his reputation as one of the most wanted contract killers on the planet. As if school work and Alex’s diet and panic attacks could hold his attention literally anywhere outside of prison. Even Ian, who was probably only in the field a few times a year and not nearly as notorious, had gotten sick of how boring Alex’s day to day was and foisted his upkeep on Jack as soon as he possibly could. Hell, if Yassen thought he could hire someone who was good at both house care and judo to mind him, he probably would choose to pay rather than waste his own time. With Alex’s hallucinations on the downward trend, that’s essentially what the student accomodations were all about anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A new thought crept in. What if Yassen was just… disappointed in him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d said that he wouldn’t be frustrated with Alex if he didn’t get any better, but that had been ages ago. At least a month. Alex had entire missions happen in less time than that! Besides, his problems had been more interesting then. It had been so unlike Yassen to just leave those pill bottles out on the counter and when he’d gotten home, he’d clearly not been happy to see that he’d gotten high, even if it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. That had been around the time Yassen had enrolled him in Goldstone so what if that had been a test to see if Alex could be trusted on his own?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears gathered in his eyes, but he blinked them away with everything that he had. Luckily, he was in watercolors and if he had to he could mix them in with his palette and play dumb, but it didn’t turn out to be necessary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took slow, deep breaths to the count of four.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s why Yassen hadn’t taken the school’s call. It didn’t matter that there was no room for him in the dorms, because Alex had failed his test. He couldn’t be trusted to live on his own. Yassen was staying unwillingly, probably searching for an alternative while he waited for Alex to get his shit together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the final bell, Alex plodded towards the gate behind the milling throng of students eager to get home after a long Friday. Most pushed ahead of him, and he couldn’t really muster the energy to fight his way to the front of the line. His weed drops had done nothing for him all afternoon-- they could really only relax him if he could muster the mental energy to embrace it. Alex just wanted to go home and check out. Yassen wouldn’t give him more oxy for that and Alex really didn’t want to ask him for it anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he wanted to escape, he’d have to figure it out on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took about ten minutes to shuffle to the gate, by which point he was one of the last few students. Most had already passed through to the curb outside, where a long line of luxury cars either waited or students began making their way to the closest metro station. Fiddling with his iPod, Alex killed the camera feeds around him as he stepped up to tap his card against the reader and was waved through. Outside the school gates, he slung his backpack towards his front as though checking for something and stepped onto the street. Then, to ensure his card wasn’t strictly associated with the dead cameras, he let a few students trickle out before approaching the guard’s booth. As expected, only one guard was on duty, his partner having been pulled aside by a student with a question, as he had been for the last few minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me,” Alex asked, infusing just a mild amount of consternation into his voice. “Do you have a subway schedule? I’ve not taken it before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard inside the booth nodded and gestured to the little counter, hesitating as he saw that it was empty. Of course it was. When Alex had shifted his backpack on his way through, it had been mostly to conceal the fact that he’d swiped the last six little pamphlets. “We run out,” the guard said, a touch awkwardly. “Train each three minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip. “Is there a map of the routes? Of the station?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard sighed, obviously not wanting to leave the warmth of the small and possibly-bulletproof enclosure. He waved to signal his coworker, but the man was still answering the student’s question with vague gestures at the second gate on the other end of campus, obviously not seeing him. With a crackle, his radio sprang to life, which he answered with a quick mutter and glance at his computer screen. He tapped the spacebar a few times and sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip. That was probably the main security office noticing something wrong with the cameras and checking in. He’d have to hurry if this was to be worth it. What was he going to do if the guard asked someone to bring him a map from the other gate instead of fetching it himself?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grimace, he turned back to Alex. “One minute. Stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I took only a few seconds. As soon as the guard walked away, Alex ducked into the booth and snatched the three bottles he’d spotted on Friday afternoon. The pipe was gone, but there were now two bottles of confiscated liquor and a switchblade. Ignoring the extras, Alex shoved the pill bottles into his pockets and stepped out before anyone could notice him and waited patiently for the guard to return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julius laughed, just out of sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s eyes fluttered shut while he took a slow deep breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard brought his coworker, obviously loath to leave the gate unattended for more than a few seconds. To be fair, less than twenty had elapsed since he’d stepped away and Alex did everything he could to give the appearance that things were fine and he restored the cameras with a quick swirl of the iPod’s trackpad. Hopefully, it’d look more like a systems glitch or interference rather than an attack, especially if they noticed the pill bottles were gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second guard nodded to Alex. “Sorry, we are out of maps. Let me direct you and we have more tomorrow. If you go this way down the block and turn right…”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! ;D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen stubbed out his cigarette on the iced over railing as he heard the front door shut behind him. Time to face the music. While he’d made the conscious decision to defer discussing his meeting with Smithers with Alex last night, he knew that it was unwise to delay any longer. That certainly didn’t make the impending conversation any easier, but it had to be done. He’d already done his usual sweep of their apartment, now habit, when he arrived and left. The iPod was especially helpful given how many functions it combined, though he didn’t rely on it completely. He gave the flat an extra once-over, just to ensure tonight’s necessary conversation would remain private.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if he really, really wished it didn’t have to happen at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned around, expecting to see the boy flopped onto the couch and complaining about maths problems, but instead he saw Alex’s backpack flung onto the floor and no teen in sight. A second later, he head Alex’s bedroom door slam shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fantastic. Alex was already in a mood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen brought in his ashtray inside with a sigh, carefully tipping the contents into the trashcan beneath the counter. At least it was the inverse of last night’s problem. He hadn’t wanted to spoil the boy’s gleeful recounting of his first day at school and his positive attitude following it, but now he had the privilege of taking what promised to be an already trying day and compound it into something worse. He set the glass dish on the counter. There was no helping it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t keep kicking it down the road no matter how tempting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t answer Yassen’s knock. Yassen frowned. He could hear the boy moving his blankets, but nothing else so there shouldn’t be enough noise for him not to hear him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was the brat ignoring him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knocked harder. “Alex? I need to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave me alone.” Another set of rustles and a sigh. Some of the hostility left Alex’s tone and a dullness crept in. “I’m really tired right now. Order whatever you want for dinner. I’m just going to go to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not even six.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m really, very tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin frowned. Alex’s answers were even more evasive than normal. “Are you hallucinating?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was earlier, but it stopped. I’m just tired now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Be that as it may, it’s important we discuss a few things first. Open the door. You can sleep after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence was the only answer he got.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I met with Smithers the other day,” Yassen went on, leaning his back against the stretch of wall between the pantry and Alex’s bedroom door. “We--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door flung open, exposing Alex’s ashen face. “What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” A short, tense pause as his shoulders hunched. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Yassen said with a small scowl. “Though I was tempted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alex asked, relaxing only fractionally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was not a particularly pleasant conversation,” Yassen told him, walking back into the living room. His little sharing session over the Hunter accusation definitely needed to remain off the record. It didn’t concern Alex. Technically. “And he is quite annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smithers is just eccentric,” Alex told him, reluctantly tugging out a barstool from the counter and sitting. “You get used to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may have to,” Yassen agreed, pushing the stack of menus towards Alex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy pushed them back. “Just order a pizza. What did Smithers say? Is he alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s fine, so far as I know. We talked about a few things, mostly related to his case against MI6 and how it will impact our deal with the SVR.” Yassen leaned against the countertop, mostly as an excuse to grip the edges without an obvious display of frustration. Exhaled slowly through his nose before straightening. “You’ll have to testify.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Alex’s mouth dropped open. He almost seemed to fall out of his chair and onto his feet. “But I don’t-- I can’t-- we’re--” He crossed his arms. “You can’t be serious, Yassen! I’m not doing it! He said I wouldn’t have to. I told him--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you did,” Yassen said. “But it can’t be helped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Alex demanded. He seemed to explode all at once, rounding on Yassen and jerking his arms as though he could take his fury out on the air. “You said it yourself, you don’t care about prosecuting people because the right ones never go to jail. Why do I suddenly have to get involved? They’ll find us right away, Yassen, you know they will. MI6 will be here in a heartbeat if I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, they will.” Yassen glared at the countertop before forcing himself to release it. Alex was only half paying attention to him, sputtering on about MI6 and Mrs. Jones. “I know it’s difficult news, but it’s the best way to-- no, listen to me. Listen.” He crossed his arms until Alex quieted. “Because I’m now active with Scorpia and inevitably going to go on public record concerning Estrov, MI6 is going to locate us anyway. That’s assuming no moles leak the information before then. They already know you are in Russia and have made official, if ignored, inquiries regarding your location. It’s only a matter of time before they find us one way or another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glowered at him. “Why speed things up then? How does that help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it’ll protect us from the SVR if MI6 gets desperate. They’re already making noise about you, so the SVR asked me to get evidence proving they used you to keep them from starting too much trouble. If Smithers goes public with his charges, MI6 has nothing to lose by keeping quiet about the SVR hiding you. Assuming they know where we are, they can make our presence very visible to the entire Russian Federation, intentionally or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t matter. Why would the SVR care? They are the government.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re trying to discredit certain people in power for a coup, remember?” Yassen grimaced. “On the surface, my dealings with the SVR, Scorpia, and the local mafia seem odd, but not outside the realm of comprehension. There have been dealings between those groups before, if not all at once. However, you and I make an odd pair. It will not take many questions before our cover identities are traced back to the SVR. The last thing they need is for people with powerful favors to start poking around about why we are being sheltered </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we get found by MI6 and the SVR is unhappy that other people have noticed. Fine.” Alex clenched his fists. “What does that have to do with me testifying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because powerful people do not waste valuable favors if a plausible answer is readily available.” Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, Yassen unscrewed it and gave him a considering look before offering it to him. “How much do you know about the politics between spy agencies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex huffed and took it, taking a single sip to appease him before depositing it on the counter. “Everyone lies, no one trusts each other even when they say they do, and Russia’s openly an arsehole to everyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Accurate enough.” Yassen tilted his head and grabbed another plastic bottle for himself. “That last bit is particularly relevant. No one will question why you are here if the SVR are busy condemning a rival spy agency for employing a child. Think of the publicity. The shame. It makes quite the good cover for why we are here. Questions about me would be near irrelevant. To anyone who doesn’t know about my current business dealings, I look like a kidnapper who ran home to my extradition-free motherland and leveraged you to prevent getting charged myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s lips twisted. “You said this is to protect us from the SVR, but they need you. Can’t you get them to deal with MI6? I bet they could find another way to shut up Mrs. Jones if they really tried. Isn’t the Estrov case more important?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If people dig into why we are both here,” Yassen reiterated. “They will eventually find something to suggest the truth. You told me yourself that Ash found the name Estrov in MI6’s files as well as a loose understanding of what happened to it. Jones might just forward that info along to every agency on the planet if she gets wind of what our real deal with the SVR is. Given their history with you, I imagine she might even try to swoop in during the resulting chaos and offer to get you out of trouble-- for a small favor, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The SVR’s taking a gamble with pursuing charges regarding Estrov-- if they are revealed before they can actually prove anything, their enemies will have a powerful advantage in targeting those responsible for the failed coup. Our lives are not worth that to Abramoff. The SVR can always find another scandal, this is just the most viable option at the moment.” Yassen already felt like hurling a barstool at the window given how much his own desires were at odds with the situation, but Alex’s sudden hunched silence made his own reluctance to continue even worse. He dragged in a deep breath. “We need the SVR’s cooperation for now. My relationships with Scorpia and the mafia, apart from Dima, are already strained. I would not count on them to shield us in Moscow. Not for what it would cost them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, now that Yassen thought about it, this provided him a great excuse for what his deal with the SVR was as it regarded Dima. No doubt it was something the man would grow to suspect anyway and having an obviously implied answer would save Yassen the trouble of active deceit in a relationship he needed to cultivate trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lie that could solve so many problems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gnawed on his lip, toeing a crack in the tile as he wrapped his arms around himself as though warding off the cold through the blazer of his school uniform. “Then let’s run. I’m almost better now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be risky. The SVR is still keeping tabs on us, but it’s possible that we could make it out of the city before any of the relevant parties figure it out.” Yassen felt his lips twist. If he told the complete truth-- that he thought that this was honestly the best chance at Alex getting to finish school while accessing medical care without inconvenient questions, such as why a child had obvious scars from bullet wounds-- the boy would just find some way to blame himself. It was already inevitable, on some level, since Alex already blamed himself for their being in Moscow at all. Yassen was simply hoping to minimize whatever amount that this conversation could add to that. “I would not make that plan A, however, and we are going to run out of places to hide eventually, little Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to,” Alex whispered. He pressed his palms against his forehead as though he could physically fight Yassen’s points on a neurological level. “I understand why, I just don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took in a heavy breath. “I know. But you have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was better if he just laid it out while he could. This was obviously going to end in tears or a tantrum, so maybe Yassen could just lay the groundwork expectations and jump straight to placating Alex ASAP. Just get the unpleasant part over with quickly, then move on to something Alex would like focusing on better. Something to remind the boy that their new life in Moscow was still the central factor and worth investing in.</span>
</p><p> <span>“In the meantime, he sent along a few things for you. I put his replacement bullet proof shirt in your closet already, but he also gave you these and said you’d know how they work already.” He set a package of bubble gum and a soccer player keychain on the countertop. Alex didn’t move to take it. Yassen let him have another moment in silence before he pulled out the iPod as well. “He also gave me this, so I can coordinate with him and Dr. Wood directly. We’ll need to call him and confirm you’ll testify soon so he can list you as an official complainant, but it doesn’t have to be tonight. You mentioned we need groceries and a few other things, so if you want to get your coat, we can go out--”</span></p><p>
  <span>That prompted an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why bother?” Alex spat, looking at him for the first time in at least a minute. Yassen felt his stomach clench-- the boy’s entire face had gone rigid in seething. “Why bother with putting on a show for my benefit if you’re just going to shove me into the first boarding school that will take me? If I have to testify anyway, I might as well go live with Smithers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared at him. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Dedov Dormitories doesn’t have any opening for the next six months,” Alex snarled. “Sorry, I guess I forgot to tell you. Like you forgot to tell me you were looking at them or that you spoke with Smithers </span>
  <em>
    <span>yesterday</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Yassen grimaced. “That’s not--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t lie to me!” Alex swept an arm across the counter top, hurling the cordless phone into the tile backsplash. The plastic shattered, one of the batteries rolling free of the whole mess. “I thought you were the only one who wouldn’t lie to me, but you’re just as bad because you won’t tell me things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen opened his mouth to respond, but it quickly proved fruitless because Alex pivoted on his heel and stormed to his room. His door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearly this was going well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He briefly entertained the idea of not following and hoping the boy’s fury petered out unassisted, before shoving the temptation away. This was going to fester. Alex was fantastic at letting things fester. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wearily, he took a minute to appreciate that there was an actual improvement to this blow up. At least Alex had shouted why he was upset prior to bolting. Progress. Yassen might have a shot at staving off another spontaneous run-away attempt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s door was protected by only a weak privacy lock, but he could already hear the sounds of an angry barricade being hastily constructed. He tried not to roll his eyes and failed. Not that he blamed Alex for being upset. Yassen was also going to have to do something very similar with his Estrov testimony and he hated it, despite the fact that what had happened to him was two decades less fresh than Alex’s experiences. If murdering Smithers and hiding the body would have prevented Alex from having to testify, he’d have burned that bridge in a heartbeat, but the problem was bigger than one idealistic engineer turned crusader. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen tested the doorknob. It wiggled. “Adjust your jam,” he called. “There’s too much give.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got a frustrated snarl. Arguably not a good time for constructive criticism, but well, neither would the moment Alex legitimately needed a barricade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked about the dormitories because I’m not sure how much of a target we are to outside groups, nor how often I’ll have to work late. My first concern seems to be less of a factor than I feared. The longer we are in Moscow, the less I’m worried about us attracting rival fire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rival fire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drevin’s associates, rival mafias, triads, Scorpia’s competitors, to name a few. Any hint of hostile action on their part would require we change plans quickly. At minimum, it would make finding you secure transportation more of a priority than letting you keep taking the metro.” Yassen leaned against the door again, tapping his cigarette pack through the fabric of his pocket and sparing a thought for whether or not he could buy an indoor filter like he’d had at the hospital. The cold of the balcony didn’t bother him, but it would certainly come in handy in moments like this. “As I said, I’m less concerned about that since there has been no movement from them that I’ve observed. Whether I work late often enough to be problematic remains to be seen, so the dormitories are more of a distant possibility.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was assessing options, little Alex. They weren’t my main plan. I don’t burden you with scenarios I think unlikely, even if I have to look into them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was quiet for a good long minute. Yassen half wondered if the boy had gone to sleep or something along those lines when he finally answered. “Why would working late be problematic?” he demanded. “My hallucinations aren’t that bad anymore. My seizures are still small. You don’t need to watch me every hour of the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. Alex might not like hearing it, but Yassen didn’t have the patience to lie. Besides, Alex was clearly sensitive to the idea of anything less than total honesty. “Because when you are bored or lonely, you get high. At least if you were in a dormitory, you’d have lots of company and someone on hand round-the-clock to revive you should you overdo it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy didn’t bother to deny it. Another tense silence. “Will you work late often?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know yet.” Yassen shifted slightly. “I haven’t yet, not more than a handful of times, but my last project was quite easy. I imagine now that I can be trusted with a base level of competency, they will give me more complex tasks. I will update you if that changes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you will.” Alex snorted. A pensive pause. “Projects?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Not really,” Alex sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen frowned. While he had no intention of keeping Alex apprised of the details of his contracted work, he supposed it all fell under the category of uncertainty Briar had warned him about. Setting Alex’s expectations had correlated with an improvement in his outlook before, so perhaps he should be a little more forthcoming. Vague information was better than none. “I’m still just in a consultancy role. I make a lot of phone calls and coordinate a lot of contractors.” He inclined his head, even though Alex couldn’t see it. “And sometimes I translate things for Dima.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More silence. Perhaps it was optimistic of him, but Yassen rather hoped Alex was just processing things and not internalizing some random negative emotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn't you tell me about meeting Mr. Smithers yesterday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen held his breath only briefly, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. “I meant to, but then we had our cleaning discussion. You brought up school and well….” Yassen hesitated. There was no real way around it, but to fail to answer would be to repeat the strategy that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. “You were having an okay day. I figured talking about it could wait one more. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A different silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not wanting to spoil my day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fat lot of good it did,” Yassen mused. “Is there anything else you want to know? I’ll give you an answer, even if you don’t like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really…” Alex groaned. There was something pained about the noise, enough to make Yassen wince. “I just really, really don’t want to testify.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Yassen said, in lieu of going into detail. Paused. “You likely will have to give a few recorded interviews and maybe an assessment, but I doubt it will be by tomorrow. These things almost never move quickly. It will likely be years before either of us must show up in court. If you’ve graduated and my contract is complete, we can disappear, possibly without you having to testify at all. I would advise you assume otherwise though. Our luck is quite capricious”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not wrong,” Alex sighed. “How long is your contract?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two years, unless both the mafia and Scorpia are willing to renegotiate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we’ll be in Moscow the whole time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll make you a deal then.” Alex took a deep breath. “I’ll testify, but we have to live together. No boarding school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Yassen said immediately. “With the caveat that I can temporarily move you if there’s danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Temporary.” Alex repeated. “What do you think is long term?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few months to a year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave an outraged scoff. “No. Long term is three or more weeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen swallowed a groan. A problem only time could fix. He couldn’t wait until Alex was old enough to possess anything resembling patience. “Fine. Temporary moves of less than three weeks, but otherwise, we live together. Agreed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agreed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced at his watch. For one of Alex’s snits, it had resolved fairly quickly. There might be some lingering fallout, but if he was reading this right, he’d probably seen the worst of it. Well, until the actual need to testify arose. He might be more prone to panic attacks or hallucinations, but the severity of those had lessened significantly in the last two weeks. Yassen tentatively hoped it meant the A216 was finally passing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dare he dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat. “Do you still want to go to the grocery store? We don’t have to tonight, but I agree it might be nice to have a few more things on hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s wince was damn near audible in his voice. “Well… I might have taken a bit of something. When I was mad at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “At least you’ll find your appetite. We can buy ice cream if you’d like.” No doubt Alex would fill the cart with snacks and cakes, but Yassen had been half-resigned to it anyway. It wasn’t as though the boy didn’t need to gain weight still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s not what--” Shuffling noises, the sound of a chair being overturned. Scrapes and things being shoved aside. The privacy lock disengaged faintly. Alex tugged open the door, peeking around the edge. “You’ll be cross at me. Prepare to get cross, Yassen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a thin look and held out an expectant palm. “What did you steal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex dropped a bottle of pills into it, labeled neatly in cyrillic: Vicodin. “I don’t think I’ve had this formulation before so I only took two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only two?” Yassen worked very hard to keep his voice mild. A month ago, Alex had been splitting things into quartered tablets and conservatively dosing himself with cannabis to make it stretch longer. Now two full doses of painkillers was the boy’s attempt at caution. This was escalating more quickly than he’d anticipated. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “When?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chewed on his lip. “On the tube.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be hitting right about now. Yassen tucked the bottle into his pocket. “I’ll order a pizza. What do you want to watch tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex exited through the school's checkpoint, listening to the reader chime at him, and glowering as hard as he could at the ground to conceal his reeling fury. He shifted his backpack, heavily laden with books and other assignments. Fortunately, Goldstone was a big fan of focusing on test scores and projects, not the day-to-day busywork. While Alex certainly should do his study prompts, it looked like he wouldn’t have time anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s text arrived ten minutes before his final lesson had concluded for the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Picking you up outside today. You’ve got an appointment.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>An appointment. Alex was unsurprised to see a dark tinted SUV, utterly unremarkable amongst the many pulling to and from the curb. Well, unremarkable that it was plain and clearly some kind of standard model, rather than the various luxury vehicles swooping past to gather their charges like manicured birds of prey. When Vankin rolled the window down to gesture him forward, Alex felt another stirring of ire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What had happened to the whole ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>these things move slow, little Alex</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ bit from yesterday? </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I doubt they’ll call you tomorrow</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex yanked open the car door, practically hurling his bag at Yassen. The man caught it, twisting his lips as he absorbed the weight, but didn’t scold him. Obviously, he wasn’t pleased either but that was nothing compared to the waves of terror and panic engulfing the teen as he climbed into the seat next to him. Yassen flicked his seatbelt in a clear instruction, which Alex complied with if only because he wasn’t ready to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t ready. He was never going to be ready. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it too much to ask to bury things behind him? Yassen had been preaching about his damn future for so long, Alex had actually started to care about it and now he had to go digging up--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally,” Vankin said, turning to face them from his spot in the front passenger’s seat. “We’ll have to hurry if we want to beat evening traffic. This would have been easier if he’d taken a half day, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s lips thinned. “It’s important he stay for all of his lessons. He’s already behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin held up a hand. “Fine, fine. You’ve had it your way. If we’re all up until midnight finishing these assessments, it’s on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assessments?” Alex asked. He didn’t lessen his glower, to ensure Yassen knew he wasn’t off the hook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Vankin said, flicking a glance at Yassen. “How much have you told him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the one who wished to do this immediately,” Yassen said. The corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. “I was only able to warn him that we were coming to retrieve him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good enough.” Vankin focused on Alex. “We have reached out to our Foreign Affairs contacts and gotten the preliminary go ahead. Aiding in the prosecution of MI6 for your exploitation is one of our top concerns. We wish to do everything in our power to see that they take responsibility for the pain and suffering they have caused you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t budge. “Assessments,” he repeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While Yassen informed us that Mr. Smithers does have your prison therapist as a cooperating witness,” Vankin said, with a quick glance at the man as if to invite correction. “He did mention that she might not... interview strongly. Some quirks of both personality and credibility, I believe, was the gist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fair. Alex didn’t vocalize any such agreement. “Assessments,” he said through gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Therefore, we need to begin forming a paper trail for the things she might fail to prove on her own. We need to ensure that the psychological effects and other related consequences of your abuse are well documented beyond a shadow of doubt. Redundancy is key in these things, especially since MI6 will likely be notified soon and launch their own play at muddying the waters. We must move quickly to ensure that our evidence of your trauma is directly tied to them. That, and to make it clear that your hallucinations are distinct from your trauma, in order to lay the groundwork for the charges related to illegally dosing you with an experimental hormone suppressant. Fortunately, we already have your medical records from your time in our military hospital, so we might get to skip a physical exam. At least, until further notice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex set his jaw and folded his arms, diligently shifting his glare out the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Therapists. He was going to get stuck talking to a bunch of therapists. They would diagnose him as crazy, then pick apart why he was crazy, and then twist it so he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pitiable</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead. It was vile and utterly humiliating. At least Dr. Wood had wanted to help him with her prying and eventually let him watch TV. He knew he wouldn’t be so lucky this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d want to know everything. He knew it. That’s why they would be out so late-- it would easily take the rest of the day to discuss things (his mission conversation with Yassen alone had taken hours without having to talk about his fucking feelings). Plus, they wouldn’t just leave these parts of his lives separate-- that was at the heart of his real dread. When he’d been debriefed by Crawley, he’d only had to talk about what had happened factually and with little emphasis on himself. When he went home to Jack and Tom, they’d mostly wanted to know he was okay so his very abridged versions of events hadn’t been pushed too hard. Now he was going to have to talk about everything: every flicker of fear, every moment of certainty that he was going to die, every time he had to duck out of class to hide in the toilets and just shake with adrenaline and panic and fury--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex clamped his hands in his hair, covering his ears. He was vaguely aware of Yassen speaking to him in a low, urgent voice, of him putting his hand on his arm, but Alex was numb to it. Part of him wanted to lash out, but what was the point? Hitting Yassen wouldn’t even make him feel better. This was voluntary, technically. He couldn’t run away. They would just track him down and he’d have to do this bit by bit until they had everything they wanted from him. He’d played this game before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Better to just shut everything out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is this one of his flashbacks?” Vankin asked, pulling out his smartphone. It took Yassen a split second to realize that the man had started recording video. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Panic attack,” Yassen said.The contract killer squelched the urge to lean forward and rip the little device from his hands, instead offering a glacial glare before refocusing on Alex. The video would likely be compromising to the SVR, since it was taken by a relatively influential agent in a possibly distinct van, so it likely couldn’t be admitted as evidence anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man was just being annoying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex,” he tried again, dropping his volume in what he was positive was too soft to be picked up by the phone’s microphone. “Can you do your combat breathing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response. The boy just stared forward at the floor of the vehicle, not seeming to blink or breath or do anything other than pull his hair. It was like he’d turned to stone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nudged his arm. “I know this is sooner than ideal, but it won’t last forever. Once it’s done, we’ll go back to the flat and watch whatever you like. Skip school tomorrow-- but just one day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t seem to be able to hear him, even though Yassen suspected he could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his stomach sink. Alex was undoubtedly having a panic attack-- few hallucinations required this utter stillness, but Alex was neither covering his eyes to prevent phantom organ thieves from stealing them while hiding under things nor tense with paralysis and pulling at his hair-- but he’d never seen him just </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d always at least requested space or time, not refused to acknowledge the existence of others. Not like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could he give him more Xanax? Probably not, even if he rammed it down the boy’s throat. The opiates really didn’t mix well with his other pills and Alex had almost had his full day’s dosages in his system by this hour. Getting him high wouldn’t properly address it, and would make him useless for assessment to boot. If he was ignoring him, his combat breathing instructions likely wouldn’t be listened to anyway. He could wait it out, he supposed, but he rather suspected that it would only increase in strength the more anxious Alex got. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin sighed. “Is he going to snap out of it? We need to be there in forty minutes. Rescheduling is not--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can’t be assessed like this,” Yassen pointed out. “Reschedule it anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin glanced at his phone screen and shrugged before tucking it away. “No, we will take him. Our doctors can document the severity of his fit and we’ll do the interviews tomorrow night. Or the next. However long it takes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took a deep, slow inhale in, reaching for his meditation techniques and every fiber of patience he possessed. He’d be lucky if Alex didn’t try to bolt if they came every night for the next week-- apart from the constant outbursts and tantrums he was likely to have leading up to it. Tears wouldn’t be the end of it. Missing school would be the least of his concerns. It was too sudden a change: Yassen had planned to carefully set his expectations with a reasonable timeline once Vankin got back to him. Next day wasn’t exactly unheard of, but he’d expected at least a week of lead time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that it would matter much to Alex now what Yassen had thought. The upset could easily put him off eating or ramp up his stress enough for the hallucinations to be problematic or push Alex further towards stealing drugs again--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. They both needed it to be over with. It had to be done tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His best bet was to interrupt the experience, so Alex had two short moderate panic attacks rather than a long severe one. He was short on options, however. Alex likely only possessed a miniscule amount of attention to give, so slapping him into awareness would be absolutely worse than nothing. What could he possibly do? Yassen had to stop himself from gritting his teeth as his eyes raked over Alex’s drawn features. The only other thing that he’d seen work was Trouble, but Alex’s stupid coyote was on the other side of the planet, frolicking in some sort of wildlife sanctuary and no doubt nipping at every human, animal, and electronic cable to have the misfortune to come in contact with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Actually…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat up abruptly and switched to Russian. “Where is the closest animal shelter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin just stared at him. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or pet shop. Just reroute us,” Yassen snapped. His manager continued staring. “We are doing the maximum amount of assessments tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have time to stop,” Vankin said, finding his voice and exasperation at the same time. “Our doctors were called in--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--and are under your employ. Their preferences aren’t more important than your star witness being lucid enough to be of use. They will wait another hour. Make it happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a flat look, but nodded to the SVR agent driving. “This is like the milkshake thing again, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a tired look. There was no point in denying it. “It just works.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex could feel everything, no matter how hard he tried to commit to focusing on nothing. Every beat of his pounding heart, every twitch that worked its way through his muscles, every attempt Yassen made to get his attention. Too much. The world felt too loud. He couldn’t bear the thought of saying or doing anything to add to the noise. It was too much for him to deal with considering the yawning pit gaping ahead of him. All of his worst moments, meticulously stretched thin, raked over, and rifled through at someone else’s leisure. All so he could do it again and again and in court, in front of MI6 and Mrs. Jones while they called him a liar or crazy or.... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, god. He’d be on the telly. The media would have a field day with a kid involved. Everyone he’d ever known might see it, unless it was specifically censored. As though he’d be that lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no, no, no….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The SUV lurched to a stop suddenly. Vankin was muttering something under his breath in Russian, before one of the doors was ripped open and Alex could feel the bite of winter air nip at his skin. Yassen propelled him forward, towards a building he didn’t bother to examine. Alex stumbled, but didn’t fight it. How were they here already? Vankin had said forty minutes. Why couldn’t traffic have been worse? He needed more time. He didn’t want--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was steered through a double set of glass doors. Immediately, barks surrounded him. Some playful, some angry, some startled. A cacophony of communication, back and forth, back and forth. Most were muffled, but they echoed around him and the large reception area nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fluorescent light beamed harshly over them. A handful of plastic chairs had been set up in a waiting-room-like formation, surrounding a display of tinsel trees with pictures of cats and dogs hanging all over them. Alex didn’t really register the words on the many, many banners, not that they were in English anyway, but he did take in the somewhat battered appearance of the front desk and linoleum tile. Everything smelled dust, hand sanitizer, and damp fur. This was where they were going to assess him? He supposed it might be a front, but he hadn’t expected this to be so covert. Why not meet at a regular office if they were going to go public anyway?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen halted at the desk and said something short to the young, pimply man wearing a bright purple t-shirt and obviously manning the computer. The man seemed confused, repeating Yassen’s request back at him and squinting before trying to unsuccessfully hand him a clipboard. Pimply started to shake his head as Yassen interrupted him again. Vankin sighed and pushed forward, reaching into his jacket for some kind of credentials until Yassen abruptly lost patience and slapped cash onto the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A distant part of Alex was amused. Yassen and his constant bribes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pimply was suddenly a lot more helpful, if no less confused. Scooping up the cash, he stood and gestured them back to a door further down in the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barking got much louder as the door was yanked open. Alex felt his eyebrows furrow despite himself as they were led into a little side room. It sort of looked like an exam room, if one had been crossed with a jail cell: it was tiny and featured a concrete bench built in to the wall, while the wall with the door was otherwise open to the view of passersby by a pane of meshed wire glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sat as Yassen prodded him to, confused as to why Vankin was standing outside, looking so annoyed. Hadn’t he been the one rushing to get them here on time? They’d made excellent time so far as Alex could tell and this room was too small for more than another person or so to comfortably spread out and take notes--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened abruptly again and the pimply man returned with a wide laundry basket. Alex stared at him uncomprehendingly. He’d given up trying to make sense of anything. Maybe the man wanted Alex to strip. Maybe he’d burst into a flock of doves and confetti. Who knew? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Puppies spilled out of the basket as the man set it on the floor and with a final, somewhat baffled look, left to join Vankin in their loosely supervisory position. Tiny, stubby tails wagged in every direction as the eight or so little canines began exploring the room, edging somewhat bashfully around them as they shoved button black noses to the ground and began scattering in beelines. Pugs, if Alex had to take a guess. A few ambled in their direction, clearly curious about the two humans occupying the tiny room with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not quickly enough for Yassen’s liking, apparently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scooped up the closest one, ignoring it’s startled yip as he set it on Alex’s lap. It rolled around, staring up at Alex with watery black-brown eyes and let out a long, uncertain whimper. Alex could feel it’s warm, almost nothing weight as it pawed at him. Two more puppies joined his lap, prompting them all to begin scattering and looking for escape routes across his legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” Yassen said, studying him. He bent down and collected another puppy from the floor, holding it nose to nose with Alex. Wriggling in his grip, it sniffed at Alex’s face, offering only a pensive lick at his nose as it began yapping to be set down. Yassen didn’t budge. “Maybe I should have tried kittens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinked at it, almost cross eyed with proximity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen set it in his lap, joining the first now that the two other puppies had spread out onto exploring the rest of the bench. It sprawled across Alex’s leg, sniffing briefly at its sibling before steadying itself on its hindlegs to contemplate Alex with serious, bug-eyes. Muzzle twitching abruptly, it tipped its head back and let out a warbly howl, prompting a cascading set of matching voices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex couldn’t help it: he giggled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now far more interested, the puppies began wagging their tails as the ice seemed to break. Alex wasn’t entirely certainly what had broken the spell, but he didn’t stop to examine it too carefully. He ran gentle fingers over the wriggling masses of soft fur, earning himself some licks and nips in return and invitations to play. One grew so excited, it’s tail wagged hard enough to nearly send it tumbling from his lap. Alex leaned forward, trying to brace it with his arms without knocking over the others. More enthusiastic yips and grumbles from the tiny dogs, drawing the attention of their siblings wandering the floor. A tiny paw worked at his leg and he let out another startled giggle as he saw the clustered animals around his ankles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, good,” Yassen said. His tone was dry to the point Alex could actually hear at least one and a half missed smoke breaks, but there was a tinge of amusement too. “I was beginning to feel like an idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Alex could say anything more, Yassen airlifted one of the pups from the bench and deposited atop Alex’s head. It twisted it’s little limbs in his hair, letting loose a short hail of high pitched barks as it struggled to find purchase in the strands of his ponytail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oy,” the teen snickered, reaching up to retrieve the poor mutt as soon as he was sure he wouldn’t drop the others. “Don’t do that! He’ll fall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t have that,” Yassen agreed as Alex steadied the pup. He grabbed the teen under the arms suddenly and slung him onto the floor, seinding puppies temporarily scattering. “You’d best stay low then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex tried to sit up, still laughing, but Yassen had already begun piling puppies onto him. Excited to have a responsive human, the little fluff balls began circling him, trying to climb onto his legs and feet like a jungle gym and get closer to his face, their little mouths hanging open and floppy ears twitching. Alex couldn’t possibly fend them all off and soon he was being sniffed and licked and pawed at from every direction. He gave up and leaned back against the cement walls, focusing on petting as many little soft heads as he could.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! ^^ Glad everyone enjoyed the last chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thirty minutes later, Vankin gave Yassen a measuring look as they left the shelter. Alex had stopped for a final pat of all the puppies individually as he scooped them back into their laundry basket transport, no doubt aggravating the SVR man with the added time it took. Yassen had merely given him a steady look, but hadn’t vocalized any direct warnings to the agent. He’d been right about how to calm Alex after all, and while the hour was later than Vankin would have liked, he was still going to get his assessment in tonight. “You should have mentioned he likes animals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “It doesn’t come up often.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and shrugged. “The insight might prove useful. Even though it took time for him to finish his </span>
  <em>
    <span>playing</span>
  </em>
  <span>--” an annoyed grimace broke across his face at the word “--it did give me time to phone in a request for an emotional support animal. I hadn’t thought of it for him before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Therapy dogs,” Vankin clarified. “Apparently they are getting quite popular, especially in soothing children for court proceedings. At any rate, one of our assessors has one trained for her general practice and has sent for it. Will he be able to cooperate now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced back at Alex, who was staring at the SUV drawing closer to them in the parking lot with obvious unhappiness, though it wasn’t the same severe anxiety as before. “Possibly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good enough,” Vankin said, holding the door for both of them as they climbed in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next fifteen minutes were conducted mostly in silence. Alex leaned his head against the window, watching the frosted streets ahead of them as they drove onwards into the dim evening. The temptation to probe into Alex’s state of mind was there, but easy to dismiss. As much as the insight typically helped Yassen work out some sort of next step, there was little chance Alex would be completely honest surrounded by strangers anyway. Vankin wasn’t trusted by the boy and rightly so. Frankly, Yassen wasn’t optimistic about their odds of getting straight answers from the teen with the assessors, but that was a lesser concern: he and Alex were here to check a box, not actually get to the heart of his problems. The case against MI6 was just a smokescreen, even if the SVR was invested in it becoming more than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex only had to cooperate. Yassen was prepared to fight Vankin if the man tried to press Alex for more than the bare minimum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The building they pulled up to almost begged the eye not to see it. A crumbling concrete box of Soviet Era construction, it was both too small to be anything important yet large enough to imply a moderate amount of people were employed there. As to what work that was, the building offered little to hint. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Department of Internal Labor Classifications Compliance</span>
  </em>
  <span> was stenciled neatly on a small sign, but it was easy to miss and vague enough to avoid sticking in the mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Yassen was fooled: rather he was begrudgingly impressed with the secrecy of the site. Even a handful of trained operatives Yassen had worked with might miss the hints of surveillance-- the just too conveniently placed hedges and landscaping rocks, etc.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The middle aged woman perched at the front desk didn’t say anything as Vankin strode past her into the hallway beyond. They turned a corner and came face to face with a gated checkpoint: a metal cage door blocking the hallway beyond, guarded by two men in plain security guard uniforms standing beside a small metal detector. They held themselves with more care than expected of that pay grade. Agents blending in, likely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin dropped his keys and phone in a bowl beside the detector and walked through after flashing his badge and sidearm. He was obviously a familiar face, since the guard barely glanced at it as he was nodded through, the machine beeped, before he collected his things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grumble, Alex yanked out his own flip phone, house keys, and silver iPod from his pocket and slapped them into a tray behind the first. His backpack had been left in the SUV, since it would be a bigger pain keeping track of it and hauling it around. He stepped through unbothered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen paused and emptied his own pockets-- cell phone, matching iPod, cigarettes, lighter, house keys, wallet-- into the tray. The guard waved him through, clearly not expecting him to grab a second. Yassen set inside his beretta, half spilling out of the container with its size alone, and then stepped through. The guard held out a hand with a sharp look at Vankin, bringing Yassen up short. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s manager flapped a hand as though to wave away the guard’s concerns. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He waited until the man reluctantly stepped aside. He gave Yassen a look. “Do you have to come armed everywhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin didn’t dignify that with an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin led them down another series of hallways until they reached a final door, pushing it open to reveal an observation room. Dim and full of acoustic equipment, feeds, and computers, arranged carefully around a handful of chairs angled to watch the interview room on the other side of the glass. The room beyond was a lot more pleasant looking, though it seemed to have taken some effort to make what amounted to a concrete box look like a proper therapist's office. A squishy looking arm chair had been set in the corner opposite the mirror, with another similar one set aside for whoever would be asking the questions. Large plants had been placed aesthetically beside them, while a side table held glasses and pitcher of water. Almost apologetically, a camera and recording equipment had been set up from a discreet angle that would omit the mirrored window from direct view. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small cluster of four professionals were murmuring together in the corner of the observation room as they entered. The doctors, Yassen presumed. Three men, ranging from late thirties to early sixties, and one woman in her early forties. All dressed in business clothes with ID badges pinned to their lapels, all of them looking tired at this hour in the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to meet our specialists. Dr. Werner, Dr. Stepanova, Dr. Barker, and Dr. Tanaka. All of them are certified doctors of psychology and psychiatry with specialized credentials in treating children and adolescents.” Vankin turned to Alex. “All right, this is you. All four of them are going to interview you one at a time, so be prepared to repeat yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s entire posture stiffened, though his expression was carefully blank. “Is anything off limits?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid not,” the older doctor said, when Vankin inclined his head in his direction. “While many of our questions are prepared, we need to remain adaptable for a proper assessment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex crossed his arms, clearly not liking that answer. “And everyone’s going to see it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin nodded. “Just me and the doctors. And Yassen, of course, per his insistence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to ensure you don’t get stuck answering irrelevant questions,” Yassen explained, as Alex chewed his lip. He offered Vankin a flat look. “I’d hate for anyone to get caught up exploring the details of his missions that don’t directly relate to his abuse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If his manager took offense at being accused of seeking to take advantage of the opportunity to glean intelligence information at Alex’s expense, he didn’t show it. “Well, we certainly want to stay on task. The sooner the better, considering our deadlines. With that said, let us start. Dr. Werner, you will be first.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex reluctantly allowed the oldest doctor to escort him into the interview room and get him settled in his chair. His heart beat wildly in his chest and he could feel his fingers clench again and again. It was involuntary, for the most part. Alex wondered briefly if him not being able to hold it together was a recent thing or if he just hadn’t realized how much he must have telegraphed his discomfort in the past. He tended to get discovered on his missions a lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that it mattered now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt like a pinball in a machine, ricocheting in a thousand different directions without focus or pause. First getting picked up from school the day after he’d agreed to participate in this bullshit, his panic attack, to playing with puppies of all things, and now to this. The tidal wave was still there, but it was eclipsed by just how tired of this entire thing he was. He just wanted to get it over with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathed in carefully through his nose, mentally counting to four as Dr. Werner left and returned a moment later. This time, he was accompanied by a long haired golden retriever with soft eyes and a gently wagging tail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick surge of resentment flooded him. He’d had fun playing with the puppies and, admittedly, it had helped, but now he just felt condescended to. Like they thought they could make him dance if only they placated him with the right treat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner unhooked the leash and gave the dog a gentle pat. He was in his early sixties, with a shortly trimmed salt and pepper beard and a pair of reading glasses tucked absently into the collar of his woolen sweater. He spoke English with a faint Swiss accent. “Perhaps some more introductions are in order. Alex, this is Nina. She belongs to Dr. Stepanova and is a certified therapy dog. While her conversation skills are quite lacking for a therapist--” here he smiled at his own joke, undeterred when Alex couldn’t muster the manners to match it “--she does, however, make an excellent companion. Go say hello, Nina.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nina plodded over to him and sat next to Alex, shoving her head at his hand. The slow, careful way she moved and the short white fur near her nose gave Alex the impression that she was an older dog. Alex patted her stiffly, despite himself. As much as he wanted to ignore her entirely to make a pointed statement that he couldn’t be manipulated, he couldn’t quite bring himself to reject her greeting. It would be cruel. She wouldn’t understand that he wasn’t mad at her. Her shaggy, pale head bobbed and her big pink tongue lolled slightly as she panted, in that happy droopy way retrievers had to them. She seemed to smile up at him with big brown eyes, wise and calm and guileless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dropped his hand. There. He hadn’t been rude to the dog, who hadn’t done anything wrong herself, but he hadn’t cuddled it either. He crossed his arms and looked away, scowling at the mirror wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner made a small note. “Please make yourself comfortable, Alex. Now, would you prefer to talk about today and what happened on your way over first, or would you rather start with the first time you came into contact with MI6?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex took a deep breath. At least this was something familiar to him. He relaxed fractionally. Maybe he could treat it a bit like his sessions with Dr. Woods; factually stating things that had happened and treating his own responses like symptoms. Cause and effect. It was just a little less vulnerable. “Let’s just start with the first time. What do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you first become aware or suspect that MI6 had any involvement or interest in your life? Describe the first moment you realized it, if you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chewed on his lip. “When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, it’s never good news...”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY! I hope everyone is doin</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen kept to himself, one leg crossed over another as he watched the interviews with rapt attention. The other doctors scribbled notes and consulted quietly with each other, but Yassen only listened with half an ear. True to Vankin’s suggestion, Alex did seem to find himself repeating the same information again and again. By the fourth time, it was almost mechanical to hear the same phrases, though it clearly still brought him some stress to revisit the details. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was the dog helping. Yassen hadn’t missed the way Alex had pointedly refused to engage with it beyond the cursory. That hadn’t lasted terribly long. The dog had placed one gentle paw atop the boy’s knee about fifteen minutes in, as Alex was detailing the experience of being dropped into a tank with a Portuguese Man o’ War to either drown or be stung to death. Like drawing poison out of a wound, Alex’s hand had eventually slid onto the dog’s head, petting and stroking the hair while it gazed up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen would have to remember that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be fair to the doctors, they all seemed to be careful and respectful of Alex’s stress levels. Topics of obvious distress were slowly explored around the edges and occasionally double backed for in order to break up the immediate tension. None of their questions were shocking or overly invasive; it was clear that they had been briefed on his history, thus the horrors lurking in his missions didn’t come as a surprise. Another thing Alex wouldn’t have to navigate.  All in all, Yassen would consider it a success: the four hour conversation had clearly taken its toll on Alex, who generally tried to avoid going into detail unless he absolutely had to, and was looking progressively more exhausted and stressed as things went on. He also got snippy and sarcastic from time to time, but Yassen considered that a guarantee based on what he’d seen of Alex’s time in prison when he was forced to interact with adults he didn’t like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half watching the final interview, Yassen found himself drawn into the murmured discussions that seemed to be trailing off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-- a lot of long term care,” Dr. Stepanova emphasized, scribbling something and sitting back in her chair. She’d been second to interview the boy and seemed to have wrapped up her own notes that would no doubt be compiled into the final report. Like Yassen, she seemed to only half pay attention to the remainder of the questions: Alex had already detailed all of his missions and the worst of his symptoms, becoming more and more vague as they got closer to his current state. Yassen was surprised they tolerated that, though he supposed tonight was more about capturing the past as MI6 had been directly involved in it. No doubt there would be more interviews in the future. “It’s hard to say with any certainty what is next for him. I doubt he’s ready to begin therapy, much less make the switch to methadone. I won’t even speculate on what steroid therapy will add to the equation. If the case intends to be made that his damage is long term, that won’t be an issue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen inclined his head. “What can you speculate on the needs of his long term care?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” the doctor seemed startled to be addressed by him at all. Yassen certainly hadn’t made an effort to speak to anyone and Vankin had wandered off an hour ago. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s next for him?” Yassen clarified. “If he’s not ready for methadone or therapy, what do you recommend I do next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepanova considered him. “Personally, it’s going to be an uphill battle. He’s bright, but very suspicious of the motives of others. The quality of his self-reflection is difficult to gauge, but is not particularly strong at his age anyway so I wouldn’t be optimistic. His first step should be to get on medication to manage his mental health: depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Seizures as well, though those are less important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is on medication.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dug through her sheaf of papers. “The oxycodone and xanax? That is not nearly enough to address his neurochemical needs. In fact, I wouldn’t even say those medications are appropriate together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced. It wasn’t a surprise, but it still wasn’t reassuring to hear, either. “What else does he need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He needs a licensed psychiatrist to balance his complete medications list and get him started on antidepressants and antianxiety medications. It seems like he’s trying to manage those with what he’s taking but those are far from as effective or precise as what he needs. It’s the equivalent of putting a wooden spoon across the opening of a boiling pot; while it might temporarily keep things under control, it will boil over eventually. He needs a proper doctor, not a general physician, to make small adjustments over time. After a few months of that, perhaps he can move on to more rigorous therapy and then to rehabilitation. Steroids are something a medical doctor would understand better, but they may have psychiatric side effects that will compound his current problems. Increased aggression is what would most concern me, given his history.” Her lips tightened and her glance was noticeably more critical this time. “He should have already started </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>by now, since he will likely struggle anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered his hands, nettled despite himself. Her criticism wasn’t aimed at him specifically, but it wasn’t as though Vankin were in charge of Alex’s care. Yassen was, and he had put finding Alex a therapist off. Some of it was for practical concerns, like wanting to ensure Alex wasn’t asked to pour out his heart and soul to a therapist that would turn around and offer transcripts to any intelligence agency that asked. It would take time to locate someone suitable. Most of his reasons, however, were admittedly more idiotic: he knew Alex would pitch a fit, had wanted to give him time to settle in to his new life, and had even secretly hoped some of his problems might resolve themselves when neither of them were looking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not only had Yassen been stupid, it was incredibly short-sighted. Chert. “Struggle in what ways?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighed. “I suspect he will have difficulty sticking to his medication if he does not like the side effects and does not see immediate results. It will be months before he sees improvements, but the negative side effects are noticeable almost immediately. Therapy will be less productive if he isn’t functioning better, at least enough to make it possible to attempt to tackle his emotional problems. Of course, he is resistant to any real or perceived attempts to influence or control his behavior, and recovery requires trusting others. He will struggle with every new step.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many years do you think it will take?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is impossible to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ballpark it for me. I will accept a guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tapped her pen absently against her clipboard. “Perhaps ten years. Easily more, only possibly less. Ten years to address the worst of it, with varying levels of functioning in between.” She gave him a side glance. “Don’t misunderstand. His experiences are a life sentence. He will be on medication for the rest of his life. It will not be easy. He will not be what you call average, but if he works hard and has support, he will be… okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten years. On the lower end. Yassen felt that one echo around inside his head before turning to the doctor beside her, as though he didn’t feel like he’d been spartan-kicked from an airplane without a parachute. “I see. And you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Barker nodded. He was the youngest of the clinicians, only a few years older than Yassen himself. “About the same, I think. Ten years might seem like a lot, but you have to consider how many adjustment issues he already has versus how many he will face transitioning into adulthood. It’s very important he get guidance, however; while he’s reluctant to discuss his own personal belief system, it’s clear that the way he’s evaluating situations is neither healthy for a child nor an adult. Any more delays in treatment during his teen years drastically decreases the odds he leads a well-adjusted life at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I concur,” Stepanova murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside the interview, Dr. Tanaka snapped his fingers. “Alex? Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared straight ahead, fingers half tangled in the dog’s fur near her neck. The canine headbutted his knee to no repsonse. After a long few seconds, he came back to life abruptly. “--after which, Mrs. Jones told me I was done. Again. I didn’t believe her, of course. I wanted to but I knew better by then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you aware of any missing time just now?” Tanaka asked him gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed and fidgeted, sparing a quick glance at the camera. “Another absence seizure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner glanced back at the interview room briefly as Yassen turned his attention to him. “Ten years might be too optimistic, in my opinion, but not entirely outside of the realm of possibility. His drug use concerns me greatly. It’s probably the least healthy yet easiest coping mechanism he has, but he’s not old enough to really understand how serious it is. Impulse control will be a major factor in him making even a small amount of progress, assuming he’s capable of developing any neurologically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Barker hummed and glanced through his papers as Vankin returned, still staring at his phone screen. “Good point. I don’t see any notes about brain damage being confirmed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen managed not to flinch. “The last time he was examined was when he was in the hospital recovering from the bullet wound to his hip. His EEG was inconclusive, since he did not have any seizures during the procedure. He was scheduled for an MRI but he was discharged before it could be performed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepanova glanced at her own notes and shrugged. “I can go either way on this. He could be brain damaged or he could just be an emotionally stunted teenage boy.” She snorted softly, lips twisting with absent wryness. “They are close, but not quite the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner waved a hand. “It’s a bit beside the point, of course. Either way, I don’t think we dug into his current state enough to really be able to make a plan going forward. It would probably take a few months of regularly scheduled therapy sessions before we’d have a definitive accounting of his current issues, much less set manageable goals. This is all just speculation, for the most part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gestured to Yassen. “Come. I need to speak with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced back at Alex, still wrapping up his final interview with Dr. Tanaka. “Unless Alex is done, I will stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a thin look. It was nearing midnight and while the signs that he was running ragged were less obvious, they were definitely present and accounted for. “Fine.” He turned to the doctors. “You should have everything you need. Finish up in the conference room. You can review the tapes later, if needed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody bothered to conceal their eagerness to leave, with many an open glance at the hanging clock beside the door. Yassen was careful not to show too much interest in the SVR agent as the doctors gathered their things and relocated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin took only a minute before coming to stand toe to toe with the observation mirror, watching the interview conclude just beyond. “Stop contaminating my assessors,” he grumbled. “This is evidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a dry look. “As if preparing the boy, taking him to a secret facility, and then showing him the two way mirror wasn’t contamination enough. Do not criticize. I want as many opinions on his care as I can get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin crossed his arms but didn’t argue the point. They both knew the interview just had to look good. ‘By the book’ had more to do with the successful marketing of evidence, rather than an actual quality of it. “I just conferred with the rest of my team. We should have what we need on a baseline for MI6’s abuse, so the rest of the case is going to entail proving the long term consequences. It seems that Smithers will have little issue proving Alex went on missions, so we’re focusing on physical impairments, confirming the A216, and the emotional suffering angle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll need more cooperation,” Yassen said flatly. He was hardly surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed we will. I understand your position in not trying to push him too hard given today’s little incident, and I will try to accommodate, but much of this needs to happen within the month. Blood tests. Medical exams. Proving they gave him brain damage sounds promising, so there will be imaging done for that as well. As non-invasive as possible, but quite urgent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a thin look. “Fast-tracking a trial?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all,” the man returned. “It has more to do with the disappearing nature of the evidence. He has not received an injection in quite some time. God help us if he grows before we can definitely prove it is in his bloodstream.” Vankin inclined his head at the camera. “And don’t forget, the more sympathetic and young he looks in the videos, the better. He will likely look far more like an adult by the time he must appear in front of a judge. We must take advantage of his unnaturally preserved youth while it’s here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Yassen knew perfectly well there was no real choice. Vankin had a point: the evidence was impermanent but important. If it had to happen, Yassen preferred it all at once anyway. It would be unpleasant, then Alex and he could move forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the meantime,” Vankin continued. “We must begin a papertrail to prove we have done everything to ensure Alex’s emotional recovery. Weekly therapy sessions after school or on the weekends should do nicely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen narrowed his eyes. “That’s quite the time commitment. And he will be reluctant to speak to more strangers about the same matters over and over. I do not believe it will be a productive use of his time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin shrugged. “It’s a formality. There is no need to keep discussing his missions. He must only speak a little to his current issues like his drug addiction and only then for perhaps an hour a session. We simply aim to prove our efforts to provide him adequate care-- the care that MI6 did not. It would also be nice to have someone else who may testify to anything else we can lay at the feet of Blunt and Jones. Respected medical professionals are generally received well by the courts.” He gestured at the door the doctors had disappeared through. “You may pick whichever of the four he liked best today. As you might have guessed, they have all been cleared. Extremely well qualified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the glass, Alex gave Nina the Dog a farewell pat and plodded tiredly through the door, likely ready to glare at Yassen for the rest of the night, crawl in bed, and swear never to speak to a doctor ever again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed and stood. “I will speak with him about it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Sorry this is so late, comparatively speaking. My hedgehog had a bit of a health emergency (read: he was being a stubborn turd, but he's still alive and I adore the little monster) and that sucked up my entire day. On that note, enjoy the slightly longer than normal chapter. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex slumped across the lunch table and picked at his open faced sandwich. It tasted perfectly fine, but he had little appetite at the moment. He suspected that had more to do with his ‘added’ pills, but despite the sudden halt in his weight gain, he had to say he felt that the benefits outweighed the costs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach tightened. Okay, so maybe he should have told Yassen that he’d stolen more than the Vicodin from the safe, but at the time, Alex hadn’t been intending to use them. He’d translated the little labels on the other two bottles out of curiosity-- amphetamine and zolpidem tartrate, whatever those were-- and then promptly chucked them in his bedroom’s bin. He’d quite forgotten about them until the day after he’d had to be assessed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex knew Yassen hadn’t actually said that one night would be the only night of assessments, but when they’d arrived home, Yassen had pulled him aside and explained the need for other follow up exams before throwing himself into his room to avoid everything. As cranky as he’d been, he’d appreciated Yassen’s somewhat vague, but direct attempt to make sure he wasn’t surprised by any more SUV’s appearing outside his school with little warning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just hadn’t fucking expected it to be every night since. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pressed his palms to his grainy eyes. True to his word, Yassen had forced Vankin to schedule everything around Alex’s school day. While it did succeed in keeping him in school, it quickly ate into both of their evenings and almost all of Alex’s study time. The appointments themselves weren’t stressful-- innocuous things like more blood draws or saliva samples, lying still in an MRI machine and the promises of another EEG in his future. One night had even included a headache inducing amount of paperwork and legal statements that Alex absolutely had to pay attention to, since they revolved around him being in Russia and participating in the case willingly (Yassen had triple checked every single document and insisted Alex do the same). Only twice had they gotten back to their flat with enough time for Alex to put in a half hour of homework before he had to get to bed if he wanted anything close to eight hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, lying down never actually equalled sleep. For the last seven days, Alex had stared at the window beside his bed until he’d eventually passed out in the small hours of the morning, rising only a few later to get up and get ready for his school day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t that Alex didn’t want to sleep, or that Yassen wasn’t successful in forcing Vankin to release them with enough time to. Alex just couldn’t relax. He could lay there, feeling his sheets press up against his back and feeling the comfort of his pillows and mattress, but he just couldn’t let himself drift off. Not voluntarily. If he could have stolen more opiates, he might have, but they already made him sleepy during the day, especially paired with the Xanax, so it wasn’t like that would help him with his current “falling asleep in class” problem. It was by day two of testing that he remembered what he tossed in the bin with enough energy to google the prescription names.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adderall and Ambien. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it would have been wiser to use the Ambien to sleep more deeply at night, but Alex felt like that might be a waste. He was sick of pills shutting him down and besides… he wanted to keep them in his bathroom for his little private ritual. He hadn’t actually gone back to it-- yet-- but he liked knowing that they were there, just in case he needed to hold them. In the morning, Alex would rise and get ready for his day, pop a quick adderall and go meet Yassen in the kitchen for the rest of his dosages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four hours of sleep and some mild stimulants was enough to get him going for his day, but he found his energy had started to flag by lunchtime. Not quite enough to pay complete attention in class. Alex contemplated his mostly full lunch tray, let the sea of voices of the other students wash around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should take some of the adderall to school with him. Double up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At any rate, Alex forced himself to sit up and chew. It tasted okay, but swallowing didn’t hold much interest to the back of his throat. He did it anyway. His weed tincture might help, but it might also take his remaining energy away. It tended to mellow him. Maybe just a few drops?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced at Timofey as he stood. “Running to the toilet. Can you keep an eye on my bag?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey nodded from where he was chatting with Patrice and Martina. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Alex stepped away, Patrice gave him a hesitant look. “Just don’t get so high you can’t focus, alright, Sasha? We’ve got that partner project today in Immersion and I don’t understand half of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stopped short. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged and glanced away, earning a hiss from Martina who was in the middle of braiding her hair. “I’m not trying to boss you around or anything, I just need your help today and you’ve got the conjugations down better than me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you think I’m getting high?” Alex asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced around a touch uncertainly at the group, which elicited a few apologetic winces. It took him only a split second to realize that they were aimed at him. “I mean… we all just kind of know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus, a redheaded boy from the Bronx, leaned back and gave him a reassuring grin. “Don’t worry about it, Sash. We’re not judging you no matter what anyone else says. At least you hide your pill popping better than that asshat, Nika.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great. The rumors had already begun. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s medication,” Alex tried, chewing on his lip. Maybe it was early enough that he could nip it in the bud? “For my hip. I injured it, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martina raised an eyebrow from where she was busy sticking bobby pins into the wreath of braids she’d created. “If it were, you’d be taking it from the nurse. Relax. No one will tattle, just don’t overdo it.” She gave him a sharp glance. “Unless it’s finals week and you’re holding out on Adderall. I still won’t say anything, but I’ll give you bad notes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Alex’s look, Timofey looked away from the braiding and gave him a shrug. “You’re not that obvious, but between ducking into the restroom for point five seconds to swallow a pill or two and how spacey you get sometimes, it’s pretty easy to guess. The teachers won’t bother you so long as they don’t witness you taking anything and your marks are alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guards don’t care either,” Seamus assured everyone. “They don’t search you unless they’re looking for something else. Even then, someone told me they ignore pills if you’re not making more trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wonderful. Alex grimaced. “Who knows?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martina shrugged and leaned back, admiring her work. “I don’t know. Everybody? It’s not a secret but you don’t do anything crazy enough to be good gossip material. You’re not even, like, the biggest drug addict here or anything. Maybe in our group, but definitely not the school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Saanvi said, glancing up from her phone only briefly to snort. Alex was a little startled she’d weighed in at all, given her usual contentment to listen. “You and Tim are some of the tamest mafia kids here. You haven’t even tried to stab anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey raised an eyebrow. “That you know of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll just be a minute then,” Alex grumbled, plodding off. He’d probably have managed to hide his habit if it wasn’t for his absence seizures making him seem more spacey than he actually was. Still. At least it didn’t seem to be as much of a social death sentence as it had been at Brookland. He sighed. Even if it worked in his favor, he couldn’t exactly pretend to himself that it was a good thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for other people anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No familiar SUV waited for him today, finally, but Alex didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until he physically sat on the metro, the doors drew shut behind him, and the train started to move. The inner walls blurred reassuringly through the windows as it picked up speed. Today was his first appointment with Dr. Werner and Yassen had mentioned that they’d be going together. Alex wasn’t sure if that meant the man would sit in on his sessions and he didn’t care. He just wanted to go home and lay down and just fucking sleep and not think about anything for awhile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d chosen the oldest doctor because he’d been a combination between the most friendly and the most businesslike. Instead of focusing on Alex’s feelings, he’d gone along with Alex’s pace and simply focused on his physical responses. The nightmares. The hallucinations. The panic attacks. Alex hadn’t sensed anything particularly sharp or threatening about the man; he’d simply sat in his chair and took notes, expression perpetually mild. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’d been the only one to pet the dog, apart from Stepanova. That didn’t count in her favor because it was already her dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex got off on the new stop, spotting Yassen waiting for him right away. The man was leaning up against a pillar with his hands in his pockets, not seeming the least bit unusual among the other commuters. He straightened as Alex approached him, tugging Alex’s bag strap in an obvious invitation. Shoulders already sore, Alex handed it over gratefully as he followed Yassen out of the station. Neither of them made any real effort to talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner’s office was downtown, tucked inside an eight story building on the fourth floor. The first five floors seemed to be devoted to various medical offices, while the last three seemed to be various insurance agencies. Alex studied everything he could see, but apart from the slightly stagnant water feature in the lobby, there was nothing suspicious about the place. They checked in with his receptionist, a woman with long hair of an unnatural auburn hue that matched her lipstick and who seemed a little annoyed to be staying late before taking a seat in the waiting room. Alex stared at the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A minute later, the doctor pushed open his door. “Ah, there you are Alex. Come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced at Yassen. “Coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man shrugged, having picked the waiting chair that gave the best view of the main hallway outside of the glass walls that separate this office from the Dentist across from them. “If you’d like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He and I will have a short private session afterwards,” Dr. Werner informed Alex. “I’d prefer to work with you alone, but if you’d like him with you, that’s also fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another session?” Alex scowled. “So you can talk about me, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes and no.” Dr. Werner gave him a steady look. “My sessions with him are to ensure you have a stable home environment. The details of your discussions are not offered, though legally speaking, he may demand them of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t intend to,” Yassen said, leaning back into his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex wasn’t entirely surprised. The contract killer had been explicit in what he expected of him for these sessions-- that Alex go, discuss the bare minimum of his current life problems, be relatively civil doing it, and let Yassen know if anything felt off. Cooperation was required, trust was not. It wasn’t as if Alex didn’t understand the necessity, even if it irritated him to no end. Yassen likely knew most of what Alex would say anyway. “Fine. Alone is fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shall get started then.” Werner waited until Alex had sat down inside his interview room before shutting the door. The room was small and pleasant: painted a pale sage green with large oak bookshelves set around the walls, while a series of squishy chairs framed a matching couch. Perhaps he did group therapy too. Alex spotted another door opposite the windows. Storage closet, if he had to guess. Potted plants dotted the room with such frequency it felt like a small jungle had sprung up near the windows letting in the dwindling winter evening light. A small black cat with batlike ears and a narrow little face let out a meow, circling out from beside a plant stand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner paused. “Are you allergic to cats? Your file did not mention it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful. Minka is mine, but I don’t like to let her sit at home all day alone. Claws the drapes with boredom. I bring her in with me about half of the time.” Werner settled into his seat and tugged free his reading glasses to perch them neatly on his nose as he grabbed his notepad from the table beside. “She is too stubborn to be trained in anything like therapy work, of course, but you’re welcome to pet her if you like. She loves the attention. I can always move her to another room if she is distracting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded, but leveled the slinky little feline with suspicion. Minka didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she did, because she immediately made a beeline for him and hopped up onto the couch beside him. It would be just like the SVR to keep sticking him with animals, like a child who needed a lollipop and a sticker with all his shots. Or maybe… Alex stroked her head, taking the chance to surreptitiously check her collar for a listening device or anything else that shouldn’t be there. She purred, leaning into his hands such that it was easy to probe. Nothing he could see…..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner nodded softly. “She is not bugged. Neither is this office, at least that I know of. If the SVR has installed anything like that, it was not with my permission. I’d say it’s more likely they haven’t bothered. I’m to send them reports anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex fixed him with a sharp look. “I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your suspicion is warranted,” Dr. Warner said kindly. “Since there is great interest in you and you have little reason to trust me. I’m not offended by any means. Now, first I want to tell you the purpose of these sessions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re here to gather information.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not strictly, no. I will not recite what you say word for word, but I might be asked to comment on larger trends. Details are not something I will offer with any regularity unless demanded. For example, if Vankin asks me to provide insight, I shall say something to the effect of ‘Alex is not a trusting person’ as opposed to ‘the first thing he did was look for a listening device on my cat.’ I’m not permitted to withhold those little details entirely, but...” the man shrugged and gestured at his forehead. “I’m quite old, you see. If I don’t write it down, it’s quite lost to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex digested that. “Why are you telling me this? If he has bugged the room, he won’t be happy with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner shrugged. “Because it is not my job to record you or to make him happy. Progress reports will go on record, of course, but I doubt that they will provide too much interest. Gathering information on you is only secondary to the SVR’s goal of discrediting MI6. For them, this checks the box saying they have done all the proper things with your best interests at heart. I doubt they care beyond that but I actually intend to treat you. My goal, as a practitioner, is to help you examine your current situation and make better choices in the future to maximize your own happiness. In order to do that, you’ll have to trust me at least a little bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s therapist seemed not at all phased by the utter lack of sincerity in his tone. “Would you like me and Minka to give you a moment alone? You are quite welcome to search my office for bugs or cameras. I ask that you don’t read my patient files, but you may rifle through them to look for whatever else might be hiding in the cabinets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say yes was to admit that he was paranoid. To say no would be to pass up the chance to check for bugs without drawing attention to his iPod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, please. I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well.” Werner stood and scooped up Minka from where she’d pooled onto the couch, hoping for more scratches along her spine. “My computer office is through that door there, unlocked. Would you like five or ten minutes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ten, please.” He could do it in less than one, but he was secretly hoping to burn up as much session time as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I will leave you undisturbed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the door shut behind the man, Alex yanked the little digital device from his pocket and activated his surveillance hunting options. He wondered briefly if Yassen was in the other room doing the same. A quick sweep of the room revealed no unexpected signals. The room beyond the other door was an office, Alex could see, but apart from the usual wifi connection and printer signal, he couldn’t find anything coming from that direction. The room itself was devoid of anything unusual, though Alex used his infrared features just to be safe. No cameras, no bugs, no lurking notetakers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless Smithers tech was no longer any good, Werner had been telling the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the cat bed in the corner showed signs of long term use. Alex examined it carefully, before flipping it over. Bits of dust and cat hair were both on the floor and leaves of the plants around it; obviously, Minka had really been coming here for a while and not trotted out to play on Alex’s response to the puppies or dog. Alex let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Werner wasn’t lying to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least not yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten minutes later on the dot, the man rapped on the door and re-entered. Alex had long since tucked his iPod away and spent the rest of his time staring out the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Satisfied?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged. “Yes, thank you. I appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take that as the best answer possible,” the man said, with only a touch of dryness. He settled back into his chair, stroking Minka as she immediately took up a spot on his lap. “Now, since we’ve already gotten through your history with MI6, there’s no need to rehash any of that, even if this is your first session with me. Why don’t you tell me about your life right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex twisted his lips, already regretting his promises to Yassen. The bare minimum would be his new religion then. “I live here in Moscow. I go to school. I have lots of strange health issues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There. No new information. Obviously they were in Moscow, Alex was still wearing his uniform, and the man had been stuck with him for hours a week ago while he’d detailed those health issues. Not a drop more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s quite a lot of things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I disagree. This is a new country to you, a new city. New school. Your strange health issues can’t make anything easier for you.” Werner swatted Minka as she tried to bat at his hand, settling his writing pad on the table beside him. “Let’s start with school. How do you like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner seemed unsurprised by his lackluster answers. “Have you made friends yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It went much like that for the rest of the hour, with Werner gently introducing questions while Alex gave short, factual answers. If Werner were annoyed by Alex rebuffing every attempt to draw him into conversation, he didn’t show it. Instead, he filled the silence with more questions, taking a few notes here and there, but otherwise seemingly unconcerned with what surely barely qualified as active participation from his patient. Five minutes to the end of their session, he picked up his pen again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, due to many of the symptoms that we covered last week in your assessments, I want to start you on some proper medication to help improve your moods and anxiety. There are some side effects but it varies upon formulation, which may take some time to adjust for. However, I’m not yet comfortable starting you on any, as the majority of what I think would offer any efficacy would also conflict significantly with your opioids. Would you be amenable to decreasing your current dosage?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I need as much as I’m getting. For my hip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your hip is doing great, according to your physical therapy file. At any rate, by this stage most patients are off of their hard painkillers. You are still taking the same amount you took immediately following your surgery. Is the oxycodone the only opioid you are taking currently? Please be honest with me, Alex. It’s very important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “Yes, I’m only taking oxycodone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What benefit are they providing you at this stage?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex clenched his fists. “You know why. I just need them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner considered him. “The thing about opioids, Alex, is that you quickly develop a tolerance. It’s one of the most dangerous qualities of having an addiction to them. Do they even get you high anymore, or are you simply in maintenance to avoid withdrawal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled. “Sometimes I use them to get high. Mostly it’s maintenance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner nodded gently. “Do you know what methadone is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sort of.” Alex sighed. He’d been braced for this question, but he still couldn’t help but feel a flood of dread in his chest. “It helps with pain and keeps away withdrawal but also stops you from getting high, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a simplification, but yes. Methadone is much harder to abuse and is a very effective tool to help addicts. If I were to prescribe you that instead of the oxycodone, would you take it instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked away and folded his arms. “I don’t want to. Obviously. Are we done yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner raised a hand. “I only ask because I need to understand where you are in your dependence on them. Your use, by your own admission, has escalated from where it was in the past, but goes flat now during a time when everything is new and strange. I would typically expect another upward trend, but you say it has not changed. It would take a great deal of effort and self control from you to remain at your current dosage; yet, you are not interested in entering recovery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced at the clock, frustrated to see that he technically had another two minutes with the man. “Because Yassen only gives me the same dose the doctor did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he controls your medications.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grit his teeth. “He holds them for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did that come about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At first, withdrawal made me forgetful. Then I used to take too much and now he doesn’t want me to use it to get high.” Alex crossed his arms and stared at the clock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck it. Cooperation time was over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would explain your steady consumption,” Werner said, a hint of something heavy in his voice. “He doesn’t like you using it to get high, you say. What does he give you instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starting only slightly, Alex glared at a potted plant to his right and refused to answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your pupils have normalized since you got here,” Werner said offhandedly. “And your attention has improved, though that was more subtle. You are quite skilled at hiding inebriation. Either way, I know you’re taking something. What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no intention of reporting him for it,” Werner said. “It would hardly do me any good even if it was worth burning that bridge with you. The SVR is already excusing him of murder. I am quite familiar with the overview of his file. Giving a minor controlled substances doesn’t even hold a candle to the majority of what he has been accused of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He just gives me weed drops,” Alex snapped. “A tincture. It’s less risky because I don’t pass out or stop breathing if I take too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That makes sense.” Werner made another small note and looked up at Alex, thoroughly unruffled. Alex wanted to smash something, just to get a proper reaction from the man. To find the limit of his mild-faced mask “Do the drops help with your symptoms?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I eat a bit better, but they don’t fix anything. Not as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you rather take more opiates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They work better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At getting high?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, at turning me purple.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner gave him a wry smile and set down his pen. “Well, they certainly aren’t doing that. Would you like a moment alone in here? Your session is over, unless you would like to keep going. I’m sure Yassen would be willing to meet with me in my office instead if you’d like a few minutes to sit and relax.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Alex snapped, standing. “I’ll send him in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Sorry it's a little on the late side. The week snuck up on me. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen’s iPod had been neatly tucked away by the time Alex stormed into the front room and tersely informed him the doctor was ready to speak with him. For a split second, Yassen regretted not eavesdropping on the entire conversation, rather than just the first portion to ensure that this wasn’t some sort of ambush to get spy intel from the boy. The little device had already come in handy for that, and a few other things-- Yassen had waited only until Alex and the doctor were out of sight before using infrared to ensure there were no lurking dangers. Nothing obvious. With a quick swipe, Yassen then directed the gadget to check for surveillance equipment in the immediate offices beside the doctor’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed that his guess was correct: they would not be particularly well monitored here. Vankin hadn’t misled him when he said it was a formality only, not that Yassen didn’t occasionally expect their handler to be honest with them. At any rate, he was now confident there was little reason to pry too deeply into their personal lives. The tactical gains were relatively small: the SVR didn’t care much about Alex beyond prosecuting MI6 and using him as leverage against Yassen. Threatening the boy’s living situation would be good enough to ensure compliance from the assassin, so knowing the intricacies of their relationship was of less value than the effort it would take to collect, sort, and scrutinize such information. The exterior of their flat and their movements were already monitored-- additional tracking would require even more agents on the project’s payroll. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, Yassen did not doubt that they would go unobserved here, though Werner could certainly not be trusted to defend their information to the death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor emerged shortly at the start of the session, to Yassen’s lack of surprise. Satisfied, the assassin switched the device to its actual commercial function of playing music and picked up a magazine from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” filled his ears. He suppressed a twitch and hit skip. The next song was significantly worse-- something about milkshakes by someone named Fergi. Yassen stabbed the trackpad again, grateful the earbuds weren’t loud enough for the doctor and receptionist to hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I took the liberty of pre-loading some music that seemed more your style, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Smithers had said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps this mandated therapy would be good for Alex, Yassen thought, watching the doctor confer with his receptionist about his schedule for the week for the entire ten minutes before returning to his office. This was a proper therapist. His credentials were quite good. He’d even accounted for Alex’s less than typical quirks, like his wariness of surveillance. Even if Werner reported directly to Vankin, he might still be able to offer assistance or at least advice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s furious scowl as he left his session suggested otherwise. After delivering his message, he shoved his own earbuds in and glowered at the glass exit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Promising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner nodded to Yassen as he entered, gesturing at the many empty seats in a clear invitation. Yassen had half a mind to refuse to sit, but since he’d already confirmed the room’s safety, decided to err on the side of putting the doctor at ease. He likely knew something of his history, and the doctor might still prove useful at treating Alex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor finished a short handful of scribbles before looking back up at Yassen. “Sorry to leave you waiting for a moment, but I do try to capture these things as soon as possible. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen inclined his head. “May I ask the point of us meeting? Alex will hardly be reassured if we must compare notes after every session to fact check his statements.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor shook his head. “Catching him in any kind of lie is rather beside the point. The purpose of our meetings is to first, ensure that Alex’s home life is adequate for the SVR’s official records; second, create a unified support system for his treatment; and third, to offer you any insights or tools possible to better equip you for the task”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unified support system,” Yassen repeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor waved a hand. “As a minor, he only has so much control over his environment. If he sets a treatment goal, it is in his best interest if you are aware of any necessary details. We don’t want to accidentally set the deck against him, it is hardly effective treatment otherwise. For instance, he might have a goal to eat healthier, but if you keep offering him treats, it would inhibit his efforts. You and I will need to be on the same page, though I would prefer not to share the specific details of his sessions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine.” Yassen eyed the little black feline slinking towards him, but didn’t give it more than a passing glance. “What is it you’d like to know about his home life?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First, we just need to tick off some items on the state checklist,” the man said. “Does Alex have access to a safe, habitable dwelling when he is not in school?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t so much as blink. “We live in a large downtown apartment with heat controls for every room and three televisions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner gave him a pleased nod, making a note. “And does he have his own bedroom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there an adequate amount of food in your apartment that he has access to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen paused, just as the little black cat decided to rub up against his leg. He ignored it. “We tend to eat out more often than not. Is that a problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s unlikely at this stage,” the doctor informed him. “But still possible that child services may swing by to document his living space. You’ll want to ensure that there is food ready to be consumed at any given time. It doesn’t have to be any particular type, so long as it’s relatively healthy and safe to eat. My advice is to fill the pantry with cans and the freezer with microwave meals, even if it’s just for the sake of appearances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see to it.” Yassen glanced down at the cat, who now added a gentle mewl to it’s bid for his attention. The minute it realized he’d looked in it’s vague direction, it gave a triumphant purr and hopped onto his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stiffened. Great. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner must have picked up on his discomfort. “Ah, Minka seems to think you’re a cat person. I can put her in my office, if you’d like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, Yassen would have continued to ignore the animal or gently swat it away. He didn’t. Maybe it was all the questions centering around his ability to provide Alex basic care, but Yassen found himself hesitant to seem too cold, even if the man almost certainly knew something of his true profession and his relation to Alex’s-- well, lack of relations. Yassen reluctantly patted the cat’s head. “It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The checklist of questions was fairly quick and simple. Yassen answered a few more about his apartment, the school, and other resources while Werner carefully noted each answer of his notepad. Neither of them went into much detail and Yassen got the impression that the doctor was neither surprised nor concerned with the answers he received. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After those were out of the way, the doctor set aside his pen and turned to Yassen. “Now, between all of the assessments and my session with him today, I think I have nearly half of the total picture. I expect it will take me a few more visits with him before I have an accurate understanding of his perspective and a full accounting of his current problems. He is very closed off and very wary, which makes perfect sense in light of his history. Now, that being said, is there anything you think I should know, particularly about his drug use? While I wouldn’t normally “fact check” a patient, there is a very real safety concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little black feline seemed to enjoy cheek rubs. Yassen obliged it. “How much did he tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very little. We touched on it only briefly in conjunction with alternative medications.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which medications?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a few options in mind, to treat his anxiety and depression, but I do not think he is open to taking them. Not if it means less opiates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. Was there any sort of medical treatment or problem that didn’t conflict with the damn things? To think, in prison, Yassen had been more concerned with A216. He inhaled softly. “Are there any options that would not conflict with his addiction?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are some, but I would not turn to them first. They are typically prescribed when other, more effective medications fail.” The doctor clasped his hands loosely in his lap. “His opiates conflict with many substances. He said you’ve been giving him weed as a safer way to get high, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded, glancing back down at his furry lap warmer. “He would steal more otherwise. Still does, from time to time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would he do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It usually correlates with him being upset.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How often?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen actually had to consider that. The cat stretched it’s spine across his leg, exposing a graying belly in an obvious invitation. “Not as often as you might think. The last few months have been very stressful for him, but he’s only done it maybe three times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you view his stealing as a stress response?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I said, it’s only when he’s unusually upset.” Yassen wasn’t sure if he was imagining a hint of disapproval in the man. A lurking assumption. “I’ve never cut him off, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know withdrawal is taxing on the body and his health has been fragile ever since we left prison. I won’t let him take enough to get properly high, but I’ve never withheld his normal dosage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This stealing. Did it happen before or after you switched him to cannabis for highs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” The doctor chewed on that for a moment. “How much cannabis does he consume now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know exactly. He hasn’t asked for a new bottle. I gave him a tincture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner paused. “I was under the impression that you manage all of his medications.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, for the most part.” Yassen rubbed his face with his free hand, since his dominant was tied up in rubbing the cat under the chin. It had turned into a pool of purring in his lap, vibrating softly against his leg. Hopefully that was a good sign. Yassen had never really paid much attention to animals before Alex. “I’ve always been the one to dispense his xanax and painkillers, since he had memory problems during his withdrawal from his antipsychotics. The risk of him forgetting what he’d already taken was high. With him returning to school, I’ve been giving him his school-day dosages to keep on himself and he texts me to confirm when he takes them. The cannabis is consumed at his own discretion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you don’t know how often he needs to get high. Or how much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his lips thin. “It’s every day. Maybe not constantly, but it’s very nearly every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you monitor that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t officially. I can usually tell when he’s high and we spend most evenings together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting. What do you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen paused. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“During your evenings together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least that was an easy question. Yassen shrugged. “Alex likes watching television. Sometimes I play video games with him. For the last week we haven’t done either, since the assessments have taken all of our extra time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see. Does he take any other drugs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sound quite certain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen looked down at the cat rolling around in his lap. “He has little reason not to tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner paused. “Why is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s therapist considered him. “Most children obscure their misdeeds to avoid some form of punishment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “I don’t punish Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting-- and I mean that sincerely.” Werner glanced at his watch, then back at Yassen. “But I’m afraid that as much as I’d very much like to explore this topic, we’ve run quite thin on time. Next week, we can pick this line up again. Is there anything you’d like to ask me before we end?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen dislodged the cat and stood to go, but found himself pausing at the door. “Medication. Do you think it will actually help him? With the problems he has?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While it is a little early to say definitively,” Dr. Werner told him, reaching out a gentle hand as the sulking cat plodded back to him for a stroke on the top of it’s head. “I very much believe so. Trauma changes our brains, especially if we are young. Rewires signals. Enhances fear. Mutes happiness. At the very least, we can supply him with enough neurotransmitters to give him some relief from the worst of it. Provide the option of feeling other things than panic or disinterest. I believe he is trying to accomplish something similar with getting high on opiates, though they leave him less room to function. The other problem is that the body adapts quickly to them: without intervention, overdose is an eventuality. Alex’s brain can never again experience the pinnacle of relief he got once on heroin for chemical reasons, but he may very well spend the rest of his life chasing it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen did not permit himself an open wince, though he got the impression that the doctor picked up on it anyway. “What are the odds he succeeds in getting off of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Werner exhaled slowly and gave Yassen a slight, thin smile. “If he acknowledges that they are harming him and makes the decision to seek treatment, his odds of recovery are very, very good. The biggest threat is him overdosing before he enters rehabilitation, but otherwise, most opiate addicts achieve sobriety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thank god. At least there was one spot of good news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One final thing weighed on his mind. He almost didn’t ask, but did anyway. “I know we only spoke of it in passing at the assessments, but will he ever be able to live independently?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner nodded gently. “I believe it is more a matter of when than if.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a short nod, Yassen left the room. As he approached the waiting area, he saw Alex quickly tuck his iPod back into his pocket. Yassen didn’t acknowledge it, though he filed the information away. It didn’t really bother him that Alex had eavesdropped, since he had no intention of saying anything to Werner that he wouldn’t say directly to Alex if asked. If Alex wanted to ensure he was apprised of everything going on, that was fine by Yassen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come along,” the assassin said to the schoolboy. Alex grimaced, evidently mostly recovered from his sulk. “We need to get around to that shopping. Doctor’s orders.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Jones stared at the tablet in her hand, swiping her hand across the screen and closing her email abruptly. Tucked it under her arm. The sharp taste of peppermint filled her senses as her teeth cracked down on the hard exterior of the sweet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she wouldn’t give for just one bit of good news today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a ding, the elevator swept open and she found herself in a hallway almost identical to the rest of the ones in the building. Pale blue walls, white trim, standard wood office furniture-- had anyone managed to take a picture of the highly secure area, it would be near indistinguishable from any other generic London office. She shoved open the first door without knocking or acknowledging the agents glancing up at her from the reception desk outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sea of startled analysts and technical specialists looked up at her, half frozen behind their row of computers. Hmpfh. Perhaps she should put an end to this open concept style of desk arrangements and go back to the standard cubicles. Her Chief Science Officer had insisted that this layout encouraged “rapid collaboration”, however, and since everyone had clearance there was little more than personal taste to swing the vote.</span>
</p><p> <span>Samantha Redwing, said Chief Science Officer of MI6, glanced up at her from the pilot’s desk at the helm of the room. As Jones suspected, she’d eschewed her private office on the other side of the building to consult with her technical team full time. Good. </span></p><p>
  <span>A red-headed man in his early forties was studying the young woman’s computer screen from over her shoulder. He straightened and nodded as Jones approached. “Mrs. Jones. I assume you’re here to discuss my email? I would have come to your office to give a proper--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, there was no way to have this conversation privately in this room. Not that it mattered. This entire tech team had been assigned to the task at hand anyway. Tulip set her tablet firmly on the desk, the screen frozen on the image of the U.N.’s official notification of accusation and charges, and leveled the twenty-eight year old with a stern look. “What do you mean you cannot provide the evidence required to move forward?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Redwing gave her a bland, professional smile after a split second. “Actually, Mr. West and I were just discussing that. He’s in charge of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know Mr. West, Miss Redwing,” Jones informed her. “We’ve consulted on the legal angling of other cases in the past. What I don’t understand is how we can have video evidence tying Gregorovich to several crimes, combined with Alex’s obvious kidnapping from Gibraltar, yet somehow have no legal ground for anything moving forward, despite the charges Alex has listed against us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two at the desk exchanged a look before Redwing turned to the large team screen behind her, tilting it so Jones would have a better view. “Mr. West, why don’t you take point on this? I’m not sure I’ve got the legal jargon down, so to speak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The redheaded man shrugged and waved a hand at the screen. His jacket seemed to have disappeared, but then again, Tulip couldn't recall seeing the man wear it anywhere that wasn’t a courtroom anyway. What he lacked in professionalism, he made up for in skill. “Fine, fine. Okay, let’s start from our initial, safest position: Alex Rider and Yassen Gregorovich are somewhere in Russia, both criminals, and require extradition. We can’t strictly prove any of that, for various reasons, but we can send in requests to the Russian government for cooperation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I anticipated their attempts to stall, plus the fact that the Russians don’t extradite their own citizens, generally speaking,” Tulip said, waving her own impatient hand. It took her a moment to get herself under control. It was as though she could feel the hands of the clock pressing down on her, suffocating her. She almost choked on the taste of peppermint. “But Alex is an English minor. Tell me why we can’t proceed with the legal process of demanding his return under precedent, at the very least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re correct that Alex being an abducted child does open a chance to pursue actual legal action,” he said, leaning against the wall. “As the Russian Federation does adhere to the Hague convention, which necessitates returning kidnapped children swiftly to proper parental custody. It’s what we have to establish in order to invoke it is where things get tricky. </span>
  <span>That Alex is a British child removed unlawfully from British territory will be difficult to prove unless we open the can of worms that was his incarceration. Doing that should prove that he shouldn't be where he is, making our case for a legal kidnapping. However, all of that is all done to get us to our next issue: proving that he is not in his right mind, as he is cooperating with his supposed kidnappers and accusing us of unthinkable things.</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones shook her head. “That won’t be particularly difficult. We were already careful to suggest that Stolkholm syndrome is in play to the Americans. Alex need not complain of it himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West tilted his head. “That will be quite difficult to prove in court, actually. While Stockholm Syndrome is a more subtle survival mechanism, it generally shows some signs. The victims are still under stress-- they’ve simply aligned themselves with the needs of their captors rather than stand in opposition to them. Signals that they are under duress or are uncertain about their safety. To generalize, it often shares the same symptoms of domestic abuse. Not quite a hostage situation on the surface, but there’s still something off that you can spot. Even body language could be enough to make a case that he is being coerced psychologically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones dug into her pocket and procured another mint. “I don’t see the problem then. We have video evidence of them. Hours of it. I don’t care how many techs it takes. I’ll approve any amount of overtime. Pour over it, analyze every scrap of body language, and move on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the problem,” Redwing said, glancing at West. “We have. There’s nothing workable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tulip gave her a flat, disbelieving stare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had my entire team go over it. While we can craft any narrative we want on paper, there’s little evidence to back up our claims of coercion.” West shook his head and gestured to the screen as Redwing pulled up a series of clips. “Look for yourself. Here they are shortly after getting off that cruise ship in Miami.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A video player filled the screen. A small bus stop was shown, in fairly good detail though the images were in black and white. Traffic camera, perhaps. At double speed, Gregorovich and Alex sat side by side, waiting for the next line to drive by. Their day had been quite tiring: not only could she guess that based off of the reports of the failed attack by Scorpia on the cruise ship, but by how haggard both of them looked. Alex especially, since he leaned on the assassin’s shoulder and appeared to promptly fall asleep. After a few minutes, Gregorovich covered the boy with his coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Redwing sighed. “This is useless. He doesn’t look remotely scared.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heart sank. “We have more video files. That’s only one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West winced, but tapped the keyboard nonetheless. Another video clip enlarged itself from the tray, filling the screen. Alex and Yassen, in a shopping mall food court. The bottom corner of the screen listed the time and date, as well as a small MI6 notation that this took place in a small town in Louisiana. Alex and Yassen were both eating something from paper wrappings, nearly out of range of the camera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen twisted to look at someone passing in the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex tensed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching the video, Tulip’s body language unconsciously mimicked the boy’s. Praying. If there was ever a moment in which the boy second guessed his alliance with his uncle’s murderer, surrounded by cameras would be the absolute best time to make an attempt to run for--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a teenaged piranha, Alex struck face first, burying his teeth into Gregorovich’s taco (gyro? Salad wrap?) and yanking free a large, sloppy bite before the man could turn around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin scowled and swatted at him with his free hand, holding the food out of range with the other. Alex chewed and swallowed with record speed, jaw hanging open in an obvious show of intent to steal more. At least until Gregorocih tried to grab Alex’s remaining food in retaliation and the boy went on the defense. There was nothing in the assassin’s body language or mannerisms to suggest real anger or any propensity for violence. Mild annoyance at best. Not a hint of danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tulip grimaced. “We can spin this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West gave her a nonplussed look. “Honestly, even if we can loosely tie Gregorovich to two stolen cars and Alex to a pharmacy pickpocketing, there’s no footage to suggest any kind of aggravated kidnapping. Not so much as a hint of fear. If they’re identifiable in these shots at all, Gregorovich acts like his long lost big brother and Alex eats it up. Showing these tapes won’t inspire concern in any judge. They’re fucking heartwarming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or it’s Stockholm Syndrome and Alex is too mentally ill to understand the danger he’s in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West shook his head. “Believe me, we should drop the aggravated kidnapping angle. We would need so much more proof than we currently have that he is unable to understand his situation. Alex was never formally diagnosed as a schizophrenic and it could easily be shot down now with a new examination by the Russians. Without being able to prove he’s not in his right mind, it doesn’t matter if he’s kidnapped. He’s old enough. The Hague Convention can be legally ignored by having him testify that he doesn’t want to return, by using any of the proposed evidence in his accusations that he faces the risk of abuse here; or, if he just runs out the clock on being in Russia for a year, at which point it’s considered cruel to remove an unwilling child from a stable living situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Jones snapped. “We can’t prove that Alex is with him unwillingly. The fact remains that they are criminals and Alex is British. Alex will at least need to be deported and charged.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West shook his head. “Not with the clips the Americans provided. I mean, when I say loosely tie Gregorovich to two car thefts, I mean loose. I could present a case in court, but I’m not sure I could prosecute successfully. He left no DNA evidence and the cameras never actually caught him, so there’s room for reasonable doubt. Also, the crimes occurred in the States and no formal charges have been filed by the Americans since Kingman. Everything they’ve sent us since has been harmless looking footage. We know the CIA is covering up how they got to Russia, but that’s nothing new. At any rate, Gregrovich wouldn’t look good to a judge if we present what we have, but there’s enough reasonable doubt that he’s a proper criminal, especially if the Russians trot out character witnesses and run interference. We can prove Alex is a petty criminal when he stole pills from a man coming out of a pharmacy, though as he was a minor at the time of the crime, it’s pretty worthless in seeking deportation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones rubbed her temples. Of course the CIA was being less than helpful. Just what she needed. “What about the encrypted video files? The ones covered in white noise. Those have to be at least one of them committing serious crimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Redwing cleared her throat and shook her head. “I’ve tried everything I can think of. I’ve got dozens of processors working on it, but it could take decades to try every permeable--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Custody, then. We fight the custody battle, rather than the aggravated kidnapping. Gregorovich has no legal grounds to have Alex,” Jones snapped, turning back to West. “We can prove that, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West pressed his lips together, obviously not liking the angle any better than the kidnapping one. Admittedly there was overlap, but they all knew they were grasping at straws as it was. “Yes, but legally speaking, no one does. Alex is a ward of the crown, but the Bank is cited directly in three of the remaining files on public record. I would not call attention to that, in light of his allegations against us. Who’s bloody idea was that anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Tulip wouldn’t give to punch Alan Blunt in the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t so much as blink. “We can provide another guardian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless he’s lived with them before and they have some sort of pre-established familial right to his care, it will do us no good. There is no one with the legal grounds to complain about what is an unwinnable case to begin with since he’s old enough to object. MI6 can’t do that as an entity without making Rider’s abuse case for him.” West rubbed his eyes and leaned against the desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones bit down on her peppermint, hard. “Fine. What is our best move to get him back then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I doubt we legally can. Not in any timely manner, not in international court. There’s several options, none of which I would consider viable or likely to succeed without basically proving the agency is liable for what he has accused us of.” West grimaced and pointed to the tablet. “As we both outlined in our reports, we can’t move forward to extradite him. We just don’t have what would be required, even if the judge is friendly. Our best bet would be to prove that he is unsafe with Gregorovich first, regardless of whose care Alex should be under or what he wants. If we can establish that and tie it to the Federations, we can make a case that he’s unsafe in Russia entirely, and hopefully have him moved somewhere we can access. The Russians almost certainly have him under protection, so a snatch and grab under their noses is highly unlikely to succeed, even if we knew where he was.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That might work.” Jones gave him a considering look and turned to Redwing. “Can we manufacture some evidence? Gregorovitch striking the boy, perhaps?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The younger woman hesitated. “I’d err on the side of no. We just don’t know enough about their actions and timeline in America. If we come up with something damning without context, it’s difficult to be certain that other, contradictory evidence can’t be provided proving they were somewhere else at the same time. We don’t know what the CIA is up to or if they’ll get in our way. If we’re caught falsifying evidence now ...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A disfavorable judge could be a career killer. Then again, Mrs. Jones was already pretty certain hers would be dead before the year was out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she gave it everything she had, she might still succeed before that happened. “I understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>West shook his head. “I’d focus on our legal defense, personally. I don’t think we’re going to get this kid back. We should be working on damage control and on persuading him to drop the charges. If he won’t, we need to focus on disowning him entirely--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he’s made the official complaint,” Jones snapped. “We have the legal right to contact him under the purview of the investigation, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West squinted at her. “No, not directly. We can request a supervised meeting and we can demand our own inquiries, but the courts can deny us a fair bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if we can get Alex to admit that Gregorovich is a danger to him in one of these meetings?” Jones demanded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>West conceded the point with a wave of his hand. “We might be able to move him into favorable custody for a snatch and grab. Maybe. Our odds aren’t very good, though--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned to Redwing. “And if we can decrypt the video files?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The twenty-eight year old shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West glanced again at the screen. “Assuming we can prove that Alex is being kept with Gregorovich, we will only have legal grounds to demand he be removed from his custody if the files prove the man is a violent and dangerous criminal. It might even help us make the abuse allegations look like a Russian plot to discredit us, though we’d have a harder time fitting Smithers into that narrative. It might be enough to create reasonable doubt, but that might be too optimistic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Jones nodded as she gathered her tablet back into her arms. “Very well. Arrange for the meeting with Alex through the proper channels, West. After that, I want you to prepare the most likely lines of questioning we can use to get Alex to imply any useful kind of abuse. We’ll want to interview him for our own defence anyway, even if it’s under court supervision. I have a few other ideas, but I agree, this seems to be our best course of action. For now. Redwing, with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a blink, the woman stood and followed her to the door. The rest of the techs busied themselves with their computer screens while West watched them, arms folded and lips pressed together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones lowered her voice. “The A216?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Redwing hesitated. “It’s been rather challenging, well, doing both the formulation research and the method of administration modifications. Truly, Smithers was our best at adapting any kind of device--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones hissed, “We have other engineers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am,” Redwing said without hesitation. “But it’s a moot point anyway. The biggest issue is formulation. I’m sorry. It has to be injected. The aerosolized, dermal, and oral methods all showed decreased uptake. It practically won’t have an effect at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well.” Mrs. Jones took a deep, calming breath. “I want you to double your efforts on cracking the encryption. Make it your top priority. Report to me directly if you find anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was still hope, she reminded herself, striding from the room. She refused to acknowledge the concerned glances being exchanged by the two professionals behind her. It didn’t really matter how erratic her behavior seemed, not in the long run. They were only following orders, thus their careers could be salvaged from whatever smoking ruin her time in charge left behind her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At any rate, if she were clever and -- more importantly-- prepared to leverage absolutely everything she had, she might still pull this off. They had zero child candidates in the pool of likely successes. It hardly mattered-- none of them had shown the mental aptitudes required to handle the rigors of infiltrating Nightshade. They needed more than a man on the inside, they needed someone who could adapt under extreme pressure and think on their feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They needed Alex Rider.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took a deep breath. The investigation must never lead to court and Alex had to be recovered soon. The boy had done more with worse odds, she reminded herself. If anyone could do it, it was him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben Daniels raised his eyebrows only ever so slightly as he scribbled his name on the dotted line, accepting the thick envelope with a friendly nod. There was nothing unusual about the delivery man himself-- his name was Thad and he’d been the same worker to deliver packages since Ben had gotten his flat in London. Thad certainly didn’t seem any different, no signs of stress, no sign of anything amiss as he took the clipboard back and hurried off to the next number. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It just was that Ben wasn’t expecting any packages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While most people would assume that some online impulse buy had gotten backordered and forgotten, Ben had never quite embraced shopping online the same way he had in stores. Combine that with the intelligence training he’d had drilled into him over the last year, including being aware of any and all items coming into his personal space, and this had ‘suspicious’ down to a T. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, please, please let this be something helpful.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A cursory examination of the package showed none of the telltale signs of a bomb or any kind of poison, not that he would necessarily spot the more sophisticated methods of assassinating someone through the mail. Protocol dictated that he should take any unexpected packages to the bank to be properly scanned and assessed, but Ben wasn’t prepared to take that risk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sharp inhale, he ripped off the perforated tab and pulled out the contents. No pricks of hidden needles, no dusting of unknown powder-- instead, he pulled free a plastic wrapped leather day planner. A slip of paper had been included in the wrapping, with a boring professional letterhead apologizing for the backorder delay and including a promise for a modest discount on future products. Ben held his breath and flipped the book open. It looked like a normal planner, with paper sheets to detail the month and week’s appointments and to-do lists, with a small pen attached to the side. When he flipped it open to the middle, he found center transparent sheets which were much weightier and supposedly for dry erase notes. Odd. He bit his lip, tracing one finger across the surface. There was no on-switch, no button or--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The screen abruptly illuminated, overlayed on the paper sheet behind him. His fingerprint must have activated it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben took another breath, slower this time. This was some serious tech-- far more sophisticated than the calculator he’d found at Brookland. Much harder to spot, he imagined. He might even be able to take this thing with him to work without it going detected… which was concerning in its implications.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letters appeared across the device. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good afternoon, Agent Daniels. Please use the wrong end of the pen to write your messages on the screen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben did as instructed, running his finger over the plastic tip on the opposite end of the pen. It may have even been a sort of soft rubber. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Very good. Now, there’s something I must ask you. Just how far are you willing to go to help Alex?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben hesitated. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I won’t lie to you-- I’ll do a lot of things to help him, but I won’t plant bombs in train stations or anything like that. If I’m going to commit treason, I need to know that it will actually help him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wincing, he held the device away from his torso, preparing himself for the odds that Smithers would decide his answer was less than ideal and for the little device to explode into fireworks. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re not a mindless foot soldier. I find that more than acceptable, old sport. Perhaps I should give you a bit more context before we go any further. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben blinked as a small pdf symbol appeared beneath the chat log so far. He tapped it gently with the pen and then his fingertip. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Official Notice of Accusation and Charges </b>
  <span>appeared across the screen, bearing the U.N. symbol with another set of headers indicating the International Court of Justice. Ben’s chest seemed to lock up as his eyes raked across the document. For such a simple document (it only listed the charges and complainants with no promise of hearings or further action), it was quite long. Charge after charge of violating the Children’s Act: abuse of a child, blackmail of a child, conscripting a child into military service-- all bearing Alex’s full legal name. It took about five minutes just to scan through all of the accusations, dates, and legalese. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forced out a ragged breath, staring at the screen without really seeing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was quite the sticky situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, Ben had been willing to go on with some treason in order to spirit the kid away or hide him somewhere safe, but this-- this would be public. On the record. Getting involved here only increased the odds he’d be tossed in prison or have a sniper’s sights tattooed permanently to his forehead by his current employer. One false step and he’d be exposed as a traitor, with very direct consequences to Alex and his case should he fail. But exactly what did Smithers want from him? If court proceedings were in motion already, that implied that evidence had already been compiled and submitted, at least enough to start a proper investigation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers gave him another few minutes to finish panicking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you in or are you out?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What do you need me to do? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ben replied. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t understand how I can help with these court things. Do you want me to testify honestly if I am called? I won’t lie for Jones.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That would be very helpful, but isn’t strictly necessary. I have plenty of evidence that you encountered Alex regardless of what you say on the stand. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A short pause before the letters appeared again on the screen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know Jones is wary of you, but I need a man on the inside. Not for evidence necessarily, but someone who is enough in the loop to give me advance warning of any whispers in MI6. Alex is quite visible now, despite his actual location in Russia being obscured for his personal safety (don’t even ask how many hoops I had to jump through to get that signed off on). I can’t rule out the chance that MI6 will try to disappear him if they can, in the face of these charges. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can do that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ben chewed on the inside of his cheek. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you think they will try to snatch him?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There won’t be much publicity to these charges-- not until court is actually in session. Naturally, the media shall find this very interesting down the road, but sensational accusations like this are brought with surprising frequency, though most fall through swiftly upon review, so they will not do more than flag it for a future story. It will be a few months before any reputable news agency begins tracking it publically. Until then, I would say Alex is at high risk of being disappeared.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What do you need me to do first?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keep your ear to the ground. I will provide more instructions soon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben watched the screen go blank. He shut the little planner shut with a shuddering breath. Stared at the wall of his flat for a good couple of minutes. “Well, fuck….” he breathed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen watched Alex stomp over the endcap on the aisle and glare at the small package of cakes on display. The boy studied the label-- bright red shiny foil, featuring the same rolled chocolate cake that Alex had been munching on the day Yassen had come back to find a surprisingly clean apartment-- but now instead of his enthusiastic offer of bites, the boy seemed torn between whether or not the treat seemed tantalizing enough to grab now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched the boy debate over it for another ten seconds before losing his patience. “Just throw it in the cart, Alex,” he said, tugging out his cellphone as it vibrated with another text. He flipped it open and checked it. “Isn’t the point of grocery shopping to stock up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged and grabbed two packages, tossing them into the cart Yassen had grabbed when they’d first wandered into the upscale store. “You’re right. I guess I’m just out of the habit of thinking about food I don’t plan to eat in the next day or two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ll pick it up again,” Yassen told him absently. “Dima will be here in a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex paused, from where he was eyeing a package of crisps. “What? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was careful to let his body language betray zero concern or curiosity. Obviously, Dima wanted a word with him. If it were an emergency, he would have been summoned by Sergey, but the fact that Dima wasn’t going to wait until Monday to see him at the office was somewhat telling. “He wants to discuss some business in person, apparently urgently enough to meet me here. Just keep shopping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>True to his expectations, Dima only took a mere minute or two to spot them among the aisles. While the store they were in was quite large by downtown Moscow standards, it could easily be crossed in its entirety within a scant three or four minutes. Yassen lacked such purpose at the moment and was happy to follow Alex as he meandered and double backed, letting his stomach be his guide, but Dima’s purposeful stride caught up with them in only a minute or two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you are,” he said, clapping Yassen on the shoulder. Yassen watched as one of Dima’s bodyguards took up a good twenty or so feet back, near the front of the store. In sight with a clear view of the main entrance area, but not close enough to hear what his boss was saying. Obviously this was to be a private conversation. “Sorry to intrude. Hopefully, I won’t make your night too boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged and went back to glowering at the shelves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima raised an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen tucked his cell phone back into his pocket. “Don’t mind him,” he told his old friend in Russian. “He’s sulking because he had to attend therapy today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to hear that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be. When he sulks, he eats.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima turned his skeptical gaze to the cart, which was about half full with sweets and other junk foods. Yassen hadn’t gotten around to throwing any sort of nutritious staples like the doctor had suggested, but there was still time. “Not well, I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever it takes to get him to gain weight,” Yassen said. “I’m past complaining.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima snorted, watching Alex as he darted back down the aisle to examine a series of chocolate bars. “Well, this is one way to go about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a side glance. “What did you wish to speak with me about off the record? I assume that’s why we aren’t chatting on the phone or discussing this at the office.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima gave him a wry look. “You are never surprised by me, it seems. I’m beginning to think this is a good thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stayed silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, of course,” Dima went on. “I have something I need done. Discreetly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what your father-in-law has employed me for,” Yassen said blandly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is for me.” Dima’s lips tightened. The motion was a touch uneven, a subtle reminder of the plastic surgery that had returned him to classic attractiveness. “I need you to install surveillance in a lawyer’s office, off the record.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whose lawyer?” Yassen asked him, his fingers twitching in want of a cigarette. This sounded like it was only going to grow in complexity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My wife’s. They are planning something and I must know what it is.” Dima sighed. “This needs to stay out of Sergey’s notice. I will pay for whatever Scorpia’s expenses are out of my own pocket, just pick an operative that can get it done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen followed Alex across the aisle, watching Dima’s bodyguard keep pace at the exact same distance. “I cannot source this job through Scorpia, Dima. It’s in the contract that all expenses must be noted by their accountants, then approved by Sergey as the main contract holder, in order to prevent this exact sort of thing. Scorpia doesn’t necessarily disapprove of in-fighting or treachery, of course, but whoever signs the checks gets the biggest advantage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then hire someone from another agency,” Dima insisted. He folded his arms, eyes tightening. “This matter is urgent. Your contract says you can employ anyone you like. It doesn’t exclusively have to be Scorpia--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does, actually. Unless I end the entire contract, everything I enact on behalf of Sergey must go through Scorpia. They are not amateurs. You are not the first to make a request like this. Everything I order, source, or communicate is overseen by Shackall anyway. He has little reason to protect me if I threaten the contract with errant behavior.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s face tightened further. Yassen could almost feel him withdraw from him. “I see. You cannot get this done for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen turned to him, giving him a long, steady look. “I’m not saying that at all. I am saying Scorpia’s assets cannot do it without Sergey’s approval. I will simply have to do the job myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima studied him. “You can do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pursed his lips. Surely whatever file Scorpia had used to initially advertise Yassen’s services hadn’t downplayed his prowess in the field? With his luck, they’d omitted it entirely. “I’m hardly out of practice, Dima. I didn’t go into project management to retreat behind a desk. Staying out in the field is the only reliable way to keep your skills sharp. Tell me what kind of surveillance you need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Audio and visual, though just audio will do if needs must.” Dima was still considering him. “How do you want me to transfer you payment? I assume a private transaction would keep Scorpia out of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no need,” Yassen told him, spotting a handful of freeze dried ramen meals and tossing a half dozen into the cart. They bounced off the piles of snack cakes with a crackle. Surely these were along the lines of what Dr. Werner had suggested. At the very least, they could languish in the pantry until the end of time. “I will do it as a favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For an old friend, soldatik?” Dima’s lips quirked, though Yassen could tell that Dima was not entirely at ease. “I don’t mean any insult, but something tells me you are a complicated man to owe a favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a wry look. “You aren’t wrong. If you want to pay me back, you shall have to explain to me these problems you have with Sergey and your wife. We both know this mess extends from the personal realm to the professional. I’ve dealt with a wide range of internal issues before and it’s fine, just don’t let me be surprised by which ones I encounter.” He flicked a glance at Alex, who had spotted a display of Oreos and was busy deciding how many chocolate-flavored-lard-and-sugar-bombs he needed in his life at the moment. “After all, I have skin in this game too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima inclined his head. “Agreed. When can you have this thing done?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give me the name and address of the lawyer. I need to evaluate his current security before I give any estimates. We must only speak of this in person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Done.” Dima kept pace with him for a long moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen maintained the mutual silence, broken only by the background noise of the store; cart wheels squeaking against linoleum, the low chatter of other shoppers, the steady beeps of the tills near the front. Classical music played faintly from the speakers interspersed throughout the store. Alex perked up, spotting the frozen foods section and darting forward. Yassen tried not to sigh and resigned himself to talking the boy down to only three flavors of ice cream. Maybe he could sneak in more protein shakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he glanced back at Dima, he noticed the man was staring at the shelves with a somewhat blank expression, jaw set to the side. Yassen quickly followed his gaze to the gleaming rows of bottles of cooking oils lining the aisle in front of them, followed quickly by a small display of exotic breads in which to swirl them. He glanced back at Dima, catching his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you ever just stare at it?” Dima asked him, eyes faraway. For a second, Yassen could clearly see the scrawny teenager standing beneath the dim light of a streetlamp on a derelict Tverskaya street corner, drowning in his oversized leather jacket with it’s arms rolled up. “I can barely remember what things were like some days. Others, I can’t believe today is so different. Like I’m supposed to still be there and I’ve wound up here by mistake. As though my rich life today is a dream and I’m finally waking up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes,” Yassen admitted. He glanced again at the gleaming surfaces in front of him, at the warm light spilling out from the trendy light fixtures above onto the exotic, expensive foods arranged artfully on artesanal displays around them. “Once in a while, when I walk into a place like this. I will not be thinking of anything in particular, but when I go to leave I will make eye contact with a security guard and the old nerves return. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Like I have come to steal and they know just by looking at me and will throw me out. I have already paid and collected my bag, but in that moment, it doesn’t matter. I am fourteen again and I must be ready to run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima nodded slowly. “I once bought an entire crate of that French caviar-- that kind we stole from that young couple in that underground parking lot, do you remember?-- just to prove to myself that I could. That I’m good enough now for as much as I want. I ate so much in one night, I vomited. I lied and told Katya I was drunk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked. “On my first night in a five-star hotel, I had to talk myself out of sleeping on the floor. It took everything I had not to try to clean before I left. To apologize for being there, even though I had enjoyed it too.” He hesitated. “Have you seen the old flat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Marriott? I rented the same room. Counted the windows to be certain it was the right spot. It didn’t matter; they only saved the stone facade and even that got updated. Nothing was the same.” Dima dragged in a slow breath and turned to study Yassen. “I try to explain it to my children sometimes, but they don’t understand at all. It makes me angry some days. As though I’m going mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good that they don’t,” Yassen said, eyes drawn to the dark blonde head bobbing between freezer doors as he compared cartons, his annoying little topknot bouncing with the motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima followed his gaze and nodded. “They have their own burdens. It’s better to be careful what we tell them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try not to tell him any of it,” Yassen confessed. “Even when he asks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he won’t understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The faint tinge of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> creeping into his voice made him cringe. “Because I’m afraid that he will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima clapped him on the shoulder, dragging in a deep inhale that seemed to rattle in his chest cavity. “I am glad I found you again, soldatik. It is easier to make sense of this strange world when you have company. You know, they’ve done studies...”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Hope everyone is having a good week. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex glared at the bags he set on the counter, listening to Yassen pad around the apartment doing his security checks before they were allowed to speak freely. It was a new quirk the man had now that the days of anonymous hotel rooms were past. Now, when they’d both been gone for any real period of time, the integrity of the apartment would have to be verified by one of them (usually Yassen) before they could settle in, but at least it went much faster with Smithers’ gift. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Alex was in the mood to talk. He glanced at the shining wrappers. Or eat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, he set about putting away the ice cream and other perishable treats. If he wanted to be left alone tonight, he’d have to go through the motions of pretending everything was fine. If he stormed to his room the way he wanted, Yassen would notice the sudden withdrawal and look into it. It was almost a shame his mood swings had lessened and robbed him of a convenient excuse to put distance between them. Alex found himself torn, anyway; he half wanted to shove the man into a chair where he could see him at all times and half wanted to fling open the front door, hurry down the hallway, and never look back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leave before he could be left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That hadn’t worked last time either. Besides, Alex wasn’t remotely confident he could make his way across Russia without being picked up by any of the various agencies eager to play nice with the assassin. He might even encounter MI6. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Actually, with his luck, he was almost guaranteed to encounter MI6. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex dragged his palms across his eyes. Physical escape was out. Getting high it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clutching one of the paper bags to his chest, Alex ducked into the pantry and quickly spilled it’s contents onto the shelves haphazardly. His trusty bottle of weed drops was still in his pocket. It was his only real option, since he’d given Yassen the Vicodin he’d stolen. It wasn’t what he really wanted, but it’d have to do. He pulled it out and checked the level-- maybe a tenth of the liquid was left. Unscrewing the lid, instead of relying on the dropper to deposit his usual few drops, he knocked back the rest of the bottle in one go before turning around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s eyes narrowed on him, iPod still raised, midscan. “That was excessive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled at him. Of course timing would work out exactly against his favor. It was just his luck.  “That was the point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a flick of his wrist, Yassen wound the headphones around the device and shoved it away. “You need to warn me. Not only are you going to be ridiculously high for the rest of tonight, I’ll need to get you another bottle before school on Monday. Was Werner really that unpleasant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t his conversation with Werner Alex was worried about. It certainly hadn’t been pleasant to essentially be called a drug addict (true, but not pleasant) or to have the man pry into his life. Even so, Alex had known that was the old man’s job and he was even more considerate about it than most. No, what Alex couldn’t help replaying over and over in his head was Yassen’s conversation with his therapist. He’d listened to the entire thing, even pretending to get up and stretch his legs to ensure he was in range of every word. It had seemed fine enough until the end, when Yassen got to ask his own questions of the doctor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had all been of one track. When was Alex going to be better already? What medications could he be taking right now and how much would they help? How soon could Alex be independant?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was still waiting for a direct answer so Alex shrugged and tossed the empty bottle in the trash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach had spent the night in his toes, regardless of how hard Alex tried to distract himself in the shop. Shining, brightly colored packages with the promise of treats couldn’t hold his attention for more than a few seconds at a time, though he’d put on a bit of a show to avoid questions from either adult. At least Dima showing up had bought him some interference so that Yassen wouldn’t pick up on anything amiss, though it had also lengthened the amount of time they’d spent in the shop. Even doing his best to pick out words from Dima and Yassen’s conversation hadn’t been enough to take his mind off of things. He hadn’t followed much, but he had heard a lot about Scorpia and ‘contract’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two years. That was the length of the contract and in about that much time, Alex would legally be an adult both in the UK and in Russia. That was probably when Yassen was going to leave him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing. It was fine,” Alex muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t budge. “Then why are you so upset?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not upset,” Alex snapped, before realizing he’d essentially made the man’s point for him as the assassin folded his arms with a pointed look. He groaned, pushing past Yassen and heading for his room. “God, I miss heroin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the wrong thing to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s gaze sharpened as he kept pace with Alex and stepped into his bedroom before Alex could shut the door on him. “What is that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two years would go by fast, he knew it. He trusted Yassen to keep his word and stay with him, but that deal had always been dependent on being in Moscow under protection. It certainly wasn’t forever. Once the contract was up, Yassen could disappear without consequence to himself, while Alex would finally be old enough for the man to not feel bad about abandoning him. That’s what all of this emphasis on Alex’s recovery really was, on him being trusted to dose himself, of all the little things he’d noticed as the man had begun to pull away. All this time, Alex had been banking on trying to make Yassen’s life easier by doing more for himself in an effort to get him to stay, but only now did he realize that had been the other man’s plan all along to leave. As soon as the teen was sober-ish and old enough to look after himself, he’d be on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was such an idiot. Deluding himself into thinking there was anything he could do. His life was a black hole that just kept sucking in others. Why blame Yassen for trying to escape the vortex when he’d already sacrificed so much already to keep it fed as long as he could? He was even trying to prepare him, to make sure that Alex was in a good place before he went. Of course even Yassen would go above and beyond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you steal anything else today?” Yassen demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a fair question. “No,” Alex said miserably, turning out his pockets to prove it. His bag was still in the entryway where he’d dropped it, full of textbooks and worksheets he couldn’t even fathom existing at the moment. There was no point in retrieving it. He sank onto his bed. “Calm down. I don’t even know where to get heroin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know where to get it,” Yassen repeated slowly. “Not that you wouldn’t do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we not?” Alex moaned, burying his face in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen set his jaw. “What have you taken today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already texted you when I took my dose and you saw me take the last of my drops. There’s nothing else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fantastic. All he’d managed to accomplish was making Yassen even more worried about him. The tincture was starting to hit, spreading across him in slow branches of lightning. It certainly didn’t lighten his mood; it didn’t really work like that for him unless he was already in a good enough place. How much more unhappiness could the man handle before he took flight out of self-defense? Probably a lot, actually. He’d already made it this far. A bolt of fear stabbed it’s way through his chest, a bit fuzzy now. If Yassen kept pushing or decided to search Alex’s room, he’d find the adderall and sleeping pills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me what’s gotten you like this. Did Werner say something to you? Did anything happen at school?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing happened. No one said anything to me.” Alex flopped back onto his bed and shut his eyes. “Stop worrying about me. You’re always worrying. It’ll only make it harder for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned him a startled pause. “Harder for me to what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go smoke,” Alex mumbled and rolled onto his side. “Everything’s fine. Just go smoke and don’t worry about me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen paced the length of his own bedroom, staring at the screen of his iPod. The infrared fucntion was on, showing him the teen’s rough heat signature, meaning that Alex could have the solitude he obviously craved and Yassen could ensure the little brat didn’t do anything stupid while high. It was the best he could do for himself since he’d already had three cigarettes once he realized he wasn’t going to get anything terribly useful out of Alex. He hadn’t really gotten any answers out of the brat sober, which was both odd and par for the course. Alex hated talking about the things that upset him, unless he managed to find enough anger to shout them at him. Maybe Yassen should have needled him a little before he’d become incoherent, to invoke the brat’s ire so that at least he’d get an honest answer before they settled in for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as he wanted to shrug it off, Yassen hadn’t just spent weeks getting good at keeping the little idiot alive just to abandon the fruits of his experience doing so now. Something was going on with Alex, something that had immediately resulted in him taking the biggest dose of cannabis Yassen had ever seen him take and then express a desire for heroin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heroin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How had he made it there already? It was a such a leap, considering Alex had only done it once before going to prison. He hadn’t really mentioned it since so the contract killer had let it fall from the forefront of his concerns months ago. Yassen had been so certain that if he maintained Alex’s use at comparatively safe level he could prevent Alex from spiralling into a needle, but it seemed almost destined to happen whether he liked it or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over what? What could have possibly upset him this much?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hadn’t anticipated this. He’d expected their first evening that ended before the entire day was over to mirror those they’d had before the litany of assessments, with Alex eating a truly deplorable amount of sweets and talking Yassen into his terrible choice in television programs. What had prompted this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been remiss of him not to listen into Alex’s entire session, he realized. Privacy was overrated. That had to be where the problem stemmed from. It was the only thing he couldn’t account for, that and school. Alex had been fine just after school when he’d met him at the subway station, though-- annoyed and grumpy, but this hopelessness hadn’t been there. There’d certainly been nothing in his own conversation with the doctor to trip these flags, Yassen was positive. Neither of them had said anything particularly critical of the child and had focused on the relatively optimistic outlook of his condition. That was, of course, not accounting for Alex’s superhuman ability to take things the worst way possible without telling him--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer was somewhere in this mess. It had to be. Alex didn’t really invent new problems, thank christ, though he was shockingly good at hoarding and complicating existing ones. Something set the boy off tonight. Maybe it was the odd conversation he’d had with Dima that had put Yassen in such a sharing mood, but he suddenly found himself switching screens and initiating the call function. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Wood picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey! I wondered if you were going to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be quiet and listen to me complain for an hour. Can you do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex again, I take it.” Some soft sounds of shuffling, of a television being muted. “There’s really nothing good on, so yes. Yes, I can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave her the abbreviated version of everything. It took a shockingly long time. When he’d initiated the call, he’d assumed offhandedly that it would only take about twenty minutes to get her up to speed on Alex’s weird mood </span>
  <em>
    <span>tonight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but the more he talked, the more he realized that explaining that also necessitated her understand what had transpired over the last month or so. She hadn’t been updated since… Colorado, actually. It was a lot of ground to cover, even though his explanation was aided by whatever major tidbits she’d picked up from Smithers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An hour later, Yassen trailed off, somehow more stressed out than before. Saying it out loud reminded him of just how many balls he was juggling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” she said, after a moment. She didn’t sound particularly angry or upset.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced and pressed a hand to the back of his neck, grateful to be unobserved. He needed a cigarette. “You sound like you have some terrible advice to offer. Get on with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I always do,” she responded. Some sounds of fidgeting. A sigh. “I really wish I had a whiteboard one of these times. I could diagram--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I doubt it would do much good,” Yassen informed her. “You have terrible handwriting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, you’re just dishing out the compliments tonight,” she muttered. Yassen was nearly about to apologize, realizing it was rather rude of him to needle her about her shortcomings when she’d just spent close to an hour listening to his inability to look after an unusually autonomous teenager, but she cut him off before he could start. “Here’s a spoiler for you: the solution involves talking to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve already tried,” Yassen snapped. “He refused.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a tricky one, for sure,” Briar said. Yassen could hear her wince. “Understanding what it comes from is the most important part, so let’s start there. Okay, a few things are going on. Remember how I told you about those weapons grade abandonment issues?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You passingly mentioned them, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think that’s the biggest factor in tonight’s melodrama. I’d tackle that first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why? How? I haven’t said anything to indicate I’m going to leave. A week ago that I promised him that we’d live together if he testified. On his terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter. I think it’s just the name of the game for him. He’s definitely got an anxious attachment style, so I really think it’s ingrained in him at this point. While it’s defnitely going to fuck with his life long term, it’s probably not his biggest problem at the moment, so I’d recommend just not agitating his constant fear of abandonment until there’s room on his plate to focus on that in therapy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Constant fear of abandonment,” Yassen repeated, hand drifting down to his pack of cigarettes in his pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah. I don’t think he can even wrap his mind around having a permanent, stable relationship with a caregiving adult, even if he obviously wants one with you. Attachment is a really, really core thing and will definitely make things harder for him. I shudder to imagine this kid in a romantic relationship one day. Hot, cold, and clingy probably won’t begin to cover it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shut his eyes, refusing to let his mind go down the rabbit hole. “That can’t be true. He had his nanny before. Just because she died didn’t mean she abandoned him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you talking about those weird ghost comments where he thinks that she visited him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Yassen felt his chest clench. “Is that what you think--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope. You just reminded me of that. Anyway, I don’t think Jack counted as ‘permanent’, really. As far as I can tell from my talks with him in the prison, she was very good to him and he loved her very much, but he seemed very conscious that she was being paid to ‘deal with him’ and would one day go back to America without him. He also never really relied on her as much as he wanted to, even if he trusted her. Your relationship with him is a lot more nebulous, so even if it’s going well, he doesn’t know what to do with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That makes two of us,” Yassen sighed. “How do I fix this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t fix his abandonment issues for him, but by knowing that he has them, you can reassure him more effectively when they become a problem. In this case, I’d make your plans concrete for him. Like before, when you were on the run. Set his expectations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his eyes narrow. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what will happen to us tomorrow. I won’t lie to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Briar huffed. “Don’t promise him outcomes. That’s different. His bullshit meters will go off the charts. He’s sensitive to that stuff. Give him statements of where your intent meets your expectations. Spell it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took a minute to process that. Still nothing. “What expectations? I don’t have any.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you do. You’ve consulted with all those psychologists and made all sorts of intangible half-plans that are prone to change and depend on other factors right, right?” Briar sighed as Yassen fell silent. “Here’s what I’d do personally: give him a time frame. A week. A year. A decade. Just set his expectations so that however long you intend to stay with him isn’t one of the many, many terrifying uncertainties on his mind at the moment. Tell him all the things you plan to do for him and what choices he might have. He doesn’t even have to really like the answer, you just have to give him one. You can even include all of your weird caveats.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weird caveats?” Yassen asked, chewing that over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know. The way you refuse to speak with anything resembling complete certainty about the future. ‘Caveat one: that I don’t die, caveat two: that you don’t die’, etc., etc.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled. “People speak with too much surety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m only teasing you a little. As much as Alex says he hates it, I’m sure he also loves it. He hates feeling lied to, so when you admit uncertainty, it helps him trust you.” Dr. Wood sighed a little. Yassen could hear bed springs compress and a few steps. “Anyways, I think that's the biggest issue to address tonight. The drug escalation is probably tied to that and all that other unavoidable stress in his life right now. Just tell him how permanent you’ll be in his life and he should calm down a bit. Otherwise, keep making him go to therapy. This Werner guy sounds like he knows what he’s doing. Just know that it’s normal for people to switch therapists a lot until they find one they like. Tell Alex that. If this SVR guy doesn’t work out, make sure he finds another one right away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The therapist isn’t SVR, he’s a contractor for them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Because you’re proper CIA.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair enough,” Briar groaned. “Though I sincerely hope he’s more experienced than I am at this stuff. I kind of snuck in through the back door, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted, already planning how to approach Alex. “I think you overestimate the overall competence of government agencies. You’re not the first to do so and you’ll never be the last. That, I can say with complete certainty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That actually got a startled laugh. “Fantastic. Well, at least there’s that.” A short pause. “You should call me back in a week or so. I’ve got a couple working theories on how to frame some other problems. I want to do some research first, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt his eyes narrow. “Research?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mentioned attachment styles, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Yassen paused, rifling through his memories. “That’s the theory about how your parents treat you as infant influencing the way you behave in relationships as an adult, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn.” Briar sounded impressed, despite the expletive. “I didn’t realize you’d studied psychology.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t remember the specifics, just the name of theory,” Yassen admitted. “My Seduction and Romantic Manipulation training was over a decade ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you’re trained in that?” Briar barely paused. “Okay, you’ve got to give me details--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t specialize in it, if that’s what you’re asking.” Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose, for the briefest of moments, regretting everything. Especially not making this call on the balcony where he could take a smoke break. “We’re not talking about me, Wood. Get back on track. You have theories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, fine. Attachment style is one of them. You can look it up yourself for a quick refresher, if you like, but I plan to poke around myself.” The sound of scribbling over the line. Yassen was tempted to worry about the security risks of her leaving notes on either of them, but quickly quelled it. It wasn’t like anyone would be able to read most of it anyway. “Give me at least a week and I’ll tell you what I’ve got. You’re even welcome to run them by whatever licensed professional you’ve got access to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen rolled his eyes. “I don’t have the time to keep explaining these things over and over just to get someone up to speed. I don’t know where you find any for me, to be honest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Wood scoffed at that. “Yassen, I’ve got nothing but time. I thought being on the run would be more Jason Bourne action-adventure stuff, but leaving with Smithers has meant a lot of sitting in hotel rooms, laying low, while he runs around doing god knows what to get everyone else ready. No one has shot at me even once. I’m mostly just staying out of trouble so I won’t be arrested or murdered before I can testify. A project will be really good for me, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt a teensy, unexpected flicker of guilt. He hadn’t even asked how she was out of politeness. “I take it you’ve been watching a lot of TV.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t rewatching a few series, yes.” Her voice took on an aggravated quality. “I don’t go out much, not since I got here over a week ago. Even though Smithers showed me how to not stand out in public places and I’ve got vague memories of my academy training, it’s still more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t speak any Russian and it’s cold as fuck here and the food is--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re in Russia?” Yassen shoved his surprise aside. Likely, Smithers wanted her close to himself, and he’d been in the area a mere week ago to meet with Yassen. Still. With all of the focus shifting towards them, it wouldn’t be safe to keep another key witness so close to Moscow. Surely Smithers knew better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, yes. I know it’s your homeland or whatever, but so far, I’d take Gibraltar. St. Petersburg is the worst--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was rendered mute. His silence did not survive for long. “You get to be in St. Petersburg? You? Who can’t even appreciate a single thing about the most international and culturally appealing city in the whole of this country while I’m stuck in the human cesspool </span>
  <em>
    <span>that is Moscow</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Briar sounded incredulous and also a touch amused. “Moscow’s supposed to be way better. All the tourist blogs say so--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll talk to you in a week,” Yassen snapped. “Try not to let your utter lack of cultural taste crush you in the meantime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’ll do my best,” she drawled. Definitely amused. “Oh, before you go! Do more self-defense stuff with Alex. Or judo. Or just wrestle with him. I don’t know a ton about that stuff, but just try to do it every day and tell me if he gets any better about talking to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that have to do with him talking to me?” he said, at length. Was this some sort of weird misdirect? His cigarettes were calling him with their siren song and he was not in the mood to puzzle out her oddities tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just part of my theories. I could be totally wrong. Anyhow, next week. Call me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hung up and yanked the tiny white earbuds out. As surprisingly powerful as the urge to sulk was, he knew he needed to push past it and deal with Alex immediately. It was already late, but at least it was the weekend. Hopefully, the boy would be coherent enough to hold and remember the conversation, but either way, he was loathe to let it sit any longer. If this matter was contributing to the escalation in his drug use, it needed to be sorted out before Alex sobered up enough to leave the apartment. It would take the brat mere minutes to find a way to steal yet another source of opiates, much less find heroin from a shady street dealer. Yassen had learned not to underestimate the boy’s resourcefulness nor willingness to recklessly endanger himself unnecessarily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a quick cigarette, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Striding purposefully to Alex’s door, he hammered on it for a long minute until Alex shambled over to open it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared at him, hazy and red-eyed, and groaned. Whatever dozing he’d managed to accomplish had obviously done him some good, though he still looked pinched. At least the waves of unhappiness had dimmed. “I told you. I’m just sleeping. Don’t worry. Go to sleep and don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen crossed his arms. “Are you lucid enough to talk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so.” Alex bit his lip. “All my thoughts are big and tiny. At the same time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reviewing this conversation in the morning would be a necessity. Yassen resigned himself to the bother, but supposed it could be worse. “We need to talk anyway. You keep making cryptic comments about one of us leaving and I want to know why. I’ve already promised we’re staying together. Are you planning on leaving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think I lied?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t.” Alex gently smacked his head against the door frame. “Really, it’s fine. I know you’re good for it. The contract lasts for two years anyway and then I’ll be done with school. Lots of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That last bit sounded almost like Alex was trying to reassure himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abandonment issues indeed. At least it explained Alex’s wild fluctuations in trust, conveyed infuriatingly through snits that never seemed to actually boil down to trust. Yassen was going to have a hell of a time navigating this. As much as he wanted to openly address Alex’s fears, he found himself hesitating; Alex was already in a strange spot and Yassen wasn’t confident he could approach the topic without aggravating him. Dr. Wood believed it wasn’t something Yassen could fix and that it would take the brat years to do it on his own. It might be better to do as she said and address the anxieties around it as it came up. As much as he’d already been trying to do so for the last few hours, it occurred to him that this might be a topic Alex was unusually sensitive to. Perhaps he’d been too blunt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine. He wouldn’t directly call the boy out. He’d just push the conversation in an ever tightening spiral until Alex finally asked the questions his anxiety stemmed from himself. It was something he’d done before for his various intelligence gathering work, though Yassen had vastly disliked that subsection of his profession. Not exactly an aggressive approach, but if all went well, it left no room for more quiet assumptions of the worst possible options. Details might have to be sussed out later, but at least this way </span>
  <em>
    <span>they could have the damn conversation</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised his eyebrows. “Two years. Is that when you plan to leave for University?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess.” Alex hesitated, glancing at Yassen’s impassive face quickly before returning his eyes to the door. “I suppose you’ll want to disappear by then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if we have to,” Yassen told him. “If I can make Moscow work long term, it makes more sense to stay. Unless you pick a school somewhere else. We’ll sort out the details of relocating then.” He paused. “Unless you’ve already picked a program. I didn’t think you were considering specific ones this soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not.” Alex gnawed on his lip, before glancing up. “Unless you have an opinion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. The brat was going to play this fishing game too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “I didn’t finish my regular schooling, so I have no personal recommendations. I’ve heard good things about the University of Moscow and it’s close enough that you wouldn’t have to move into the dorms if you didn’t want to.” He paused. “My parents went there, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex started. The bait had the desired effect. “Really? I thought you lived in Estrov.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We did, but they lived here first. Tiny towns don’t often have universities attached to them.” Yassen gave Alex a wry look. “To be fair, I’m not sure if that’s a recommendation of their biochemistry program or not. Skilled enough to make anthrax, not necessarily enough to contain it. Maybe you’d best go into math instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That startled a laugh from the boy. “Oh, I’m sure there’s a way to make that dangerous too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust you to find a way,” Yassen said easily. “I don’t suppose you’ll have to commit to a major soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex studied him. “What will you do? While I’m in uni, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may keep working with Dima,” Yassen allowed. “If it’s convenient. I might try to retire properly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy gave him a wry grin. “Take up some new exciting hobbies, I suppose. More languages. Knitting. Interpretative dance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised a dubious eyebrow. “Which reminds me: you still owe me macaroni art. The fridge is painfully bare. A commitment is a commitment, little Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick flash of surprise flitted across Alex’s face, quickly stifled. “I’m not sure I’ve got neoclassical art forms down enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll settle for impressionism.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not optimistic about that either.” Alex gave him a dry look, but there was something searching in his expression too. “Maybe this is what I’ll have to study. All this work you’ve put in to get me back to school and I’ll turn around and be an art major.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “That’s fine. Go to Clown College for all I care. Just pick something you like where you won’t get shot at and I’ll be satisfied.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That got another reaction, quickly suppressed behind a weak grin. “You set such a high bar. I’m not sure I’ll ever figure that out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen decided to throw Alex a rope. For all the boy’s stubbornness, Yassen was able to pick up on enough flickers of anxiety that it occurred to him that Alex just might not be able to bring himself to approach this directly either. “You have plenty of time. I’ll help you sort it out. I’m already in it for the long haul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp pause. “What does that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly there. Just had to bring him in for the landing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen kept his voice completely smooth and casual. Definitely not triumphant and ready to terminate one of Alex’s many, weird anxieties. “Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting how western you are. In Russia, it’s common to not move out until you’re around twenty five, sometimes later. Unless you want to get married or go to school, but even then many still don’t. It’s changing a bit, but both ways are still common.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll take care of me until I’m twenty five?” Alex asked, finally shocked into candor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweet, sweet victory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds about right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, Yassen hadn’t realized that commitment until he said it. Felt no real regret. Weeks ago, he’d stood inside a doctor’s office in the Grand Canyon, terrified that Alex’s care would be a lifelong responsibility. Sans serious brain damage and with improving health, it seemed like Alex’s biggest issues were emotional and opiate based, according to a room full of PhDs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A decade was nothing in comparison to a life sentence. He’d spent more time working for Scorpia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, admittedly, most acts of terrorism were easier than looking after Alex. To be fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced at Alex, who was staring at the floor wide-eyed, obviously struggling to parse that. Pretending to misunderstand the boy’s response was a convenient opportunity to hammer it home. “You’re not obligated to keep living with me once you’re of age. Obviously, you may wish to live on campus or get married, but you can always move back in for whatever reason.” He couldn’t quite suppress the instinct to be more specific. To set clear limitations. It was just a hold over from creating so many contracts over the course of his career, he supposed. Of not promising more services than Scorpia wanted to give. Irritating as it was, perhaps Briar had been a little right about his tendency to do that. A little. “Assuming neither of us dies. Or gets arrested. Or if I hate living with your hypothetical spouse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brat looked as though he might fall over. “You’d let me live here with a spouse?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Possibly.” Yassen gave him a flat look. “Just don’t be one of those idiots that has a baby at eighteen. I have my limits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s smile was uncertain, but just a touch easier to Yassen’s eyes. “Only one drunk toddler per household?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely.” Mission more or less accomplished, Yassen tilted his head towards the living room. “Do you still want to sleep or do you want to watch something first? You have a lot of school work to catch up on tomorrow. I thought you might like a break.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned. “I’ll just do it on Sunday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you’re telling yourself? Come.” Yassen grabbed his arm and began towing him to the front room, ignoring Alex’s grumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> He deposited Alex on the couch and grabbed the remote. Scrolling through the channels, he realized the late night offerings of Alex’s favorite channels would yield nothing of particular interest to the boy. Infomercials and reruns, really. He tossed the remote to Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex yawned and laid on the couch. “I’ll have you know, I’m sleeping in until nine tomorrow. Not everyone lives on four hours, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still clinging to that robot theory?” Yassen asked, grabbing a small package out of the pantry and tossing it into the boy’s lap. Some kind of almond candies. Hopefully it had some hint of protein.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I didn’t say you are one. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep</span>
  </em>
  <span> like a robot,” Alex clarified, ignoring the candies. Had the boy even had any calories today? Yassen had no idea how he could track what Alex ate at school, or if it was worth the trouble. The too-skinny brat yawned again. “That’s different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted, watching Alex scroll through the channels. Ever-so-casually, he took back the candies and unwrapped one, holding it as though he intended to eat it after answering. “I don’t think robots sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As hoped, Alex swiped the treat as soon as he thought Yassen wasn’t paying attention and popped it in his mouth, grinning as Yassen gave him a scowl. “Well, you need to update your knowledge of robots then. They do all sorts of things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?” Yassen moved the box between them, giving Alex a pointed look as if to say ‘get your own’. Coaxing Alex into talking was good. It would help him keep tabs on how inebriated he still was. He’d seemed unexpectedly sober for most of their conversation, but it was hard to be certain. Alex was getting better at faking it. The safest thing would be to review their conversation tomorrow, though Yassen wasn’t entirely sure how to repeat the highlights in the morning without being too direct for the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopefully it was just this one topic that required such… indirect measures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever they’re made to do. Fix stuff. Build things. Blow stuff up.” Alex stiffened suddenly. “I’ve got it. They even make robot assassins. You’re like the Terminator! I lied. You are a robot, just a really convincing one.” Alex settled back against the couch and began twisting open a candy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow. “Really? That one was about robots? I thought it was about time travel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s mouth dropped open. “The entire plot revolves around a time-traveling robot-assassin. It’s literally the entire movie. How did you miss that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “I haven’t seen it. I’ve heard it referenced, though.” He caught Alex’s aghast look. “What? I only watch the news most of the time. Lsing yourself in entertainment isn’t a good habit to have in my profession. Too distracting between jobs. Wastes time. Dr. Wood’s therapy is the only example I can think of in which I’ve seen more than a few episodes of the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you read books.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a bad point. “I cheat a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen you read a lot of books.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen rolled his eyes. “I cheat a lot lately,” he said, a little more heavily than intended. It was true enough, but between that and his cigarettes, Yassen wasn’t certain he was willing to give them up. He’d just have to compensate somehow. Life was entirely compromises lately. “What do you want to watch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sat upright, sending wrappers scattering from his lap as he started flicking through menus. “Well, now we have to watch the Terminator. Obviously.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone. :) It's not even midnight and I remembered to post the chapter. I'm on top of it today.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Monday afternoon found Mrs. Jones seated at one of MI6’s large conference tables, surrounded by legal and operational consultants. Lunch had been served mid-meeting in order to maximize time already spent away from other priority projects, and the scattered plates half full of pasta salads and sandwich crumbs seemed almost funny in juxtaposition with all the serious faces surrounding them. Men and women in crisp suits, all eyes focused on the large screen at the opposite end of the table. Strategizing hadn’t gone particularly well; Jones was well aware that her insistence on obtaining Alex was the main snag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maintaining her composure was more challenging than she’d anticipated. The short phone call she’d stepped out to take while the others had begun eating had steeled her resolve as much as it had rattled her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her school evaluations were to be suspended indefinitely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Officially, there simply was no indication the Rothman’s nanobots had done anything beyond the anticipated, nor posed a future risk in what trace amounts they remained in the school aged population. The expense and inconvenience was no longer justifiable, at least, according to the Prime Minister’s secretary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unofficially, the charges Alex had brought against the agency had called attention to every instance in which MI6 appeared on any form related to minors. Making any related requests would be more than pointless; they would open herself up to even more internal scrutiny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There wouldn’t be another schoolboy recruit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her enemies drew ever closer. As the head of the country’s chief spy agency, she was hardly ill-equipped to blackmail her various competitors into silence, though she doubted it would hold them forever and then she would likely be out of moves. Favors and resources were finite by definition. The risk to herself was significant and there would be no point unless Nightshade went down with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Florian’s window was closing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was the only remaining option. There were no longer any other, less ideal candidates to choose from should she fail to retrieve him before he aged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones clasped her hands together in front of her, pushing aside a stray napkin once she was certain her voice . “And their response?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve made our requests,” Pearson informed her, sliding a stylus across her tablet’s screen and consulting the readout for new updates. “While the Russian government has admitted he’s under their protection and that they are legally obligated to give us supervised access to Rider, they’re likely going to stall for at least another few weeks. So far, they’ve cited school work and medical treatment as his top priority and have made a decent case that it is in his best interest to delay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones couldn’t quite suppress her wince. It might be too much to pray that they weren’t giving him steroid therapy to speed him through his missed growth. Yet. “Very well. Hollis, what do we have in terms of proving Alex’s mental instability?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man cleared his throat. “Fairly little at this time. While we might be able to suggest that he’s a drug addict based off of the pharmacy footage, we currently have no significant evidence beyond that given our....limitations. Using any of our existing documentation would prove that not only was MI6  involved in his medical care, but that he was being held in some sort of secret facility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones shook her head. “Surely we can sneak </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> of it into his file. Rebrand it as legitimate. Where do we stand on manufacturing documentation that Alex was in a mental hospital instead of a prison?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hollis’s second in command, O’Brien, glanced once at his boss for permission to take the lead and tapped his own tablet. The large conference screen filled with the image of a sunny white building, made up in stucco and brick and surrounded by lush landscaping. “As most of you know, the level of scrutiny this video will face is extremely high, so our parameters are to leave the footage wholly unaltered. Thus, we selected a private mental asylum in Gibraltar close to the prison itself that’s close enough of a match that it can support our counter narrative. Our hope was that any identifiable foliage or other environmental qualities in the prison’s video evidence would line up perfectly. Additionally, it’s quite an upscale establishment, meaning that the decor and patient amenities are quite similar, should they be visible in the background. While it may take some time to massage their records and do some necessary renovations to match the footage exactly, we’ve been unable to start as we’ve run into an unexpected problem with the recordings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She narrowed her eyes at him. This was the first she was hearing of it. “Has it been hacked or contaminated?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all. But thanks to the warden’s unauthorized deal with Gregorovich--” and here the man thinned his lips. “--we just don’t have much workable footage that proves that Alex was hallucinating and unstable. At least, we don’t have any that doesn’t involve the assassin’s quick intervention. The three biggest fits we did capture, in which he was not directly responsible for restraining the boy, either have Gregorovitch visible in the foreground or present... other issues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t so much as blink. “What other issues?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The screen changed abruptly, showing a reasonably high quality video recording of Alex, surrounded by security guards as he leaped onto a bookshelf. It crashed to the floor, sending books scattering across the carpet as the guards quickly pinned him, struggling to administer an injection. Gregorovitch carefully stepped to the side, watching the scene without expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Armed guards aren’t exactly common in mental hospitals. Not even high security wards,” O’Brien pointed out. “Nor are the obviously military-esque uniforms. Nor are the methods these untrained staff members used to restrain him consistent with medical care--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--which can also be used to challenge his expectation of safety should he be returned,” West added from across the table. “Using this footage would be a gift to his case more than anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones grimaced. “So find footage of him having non-violent, but noticeable fits that didn’t require any intervention. He didn’t always get violent, even if his behavior was unsettling or erratic. My files indicate that there should be dozens to choose from.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true, but again, the warden’s deal meant that Alex was almost always with Gregorovich while on prison grounds. We can’t find any instance of any such fits where the man didn’t at least go over to check on him, even if he wasn’t in the initial few frames. Since Alex was on heavy tranquilizers, the few fits noticeable enough to prove instability </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> which lack Gregorovitch all took place inside his bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The snag there is that since the prison has several different surveillance types available to them, certain privacy considerations are observed and bedrooms are monitored with audio and infrared.” O’Brien pulled up a series of still images obviously pulled from video files to make his point. The first being an actual example of an infrared figure laying on a bed. “Which, again, will be heavily scrutinized if we present this in court. Why would a treatment center use military grade infrared and not a camera? Why would a private treatment facility have observed his room in the first place if the fits we can show them display little provocation of violence to himself or others? In the context of an institution like this, they would be considered relatively harmless and this would be a huge privacy violation of a child without proper cause. If he was so violent it was deemed necessary, why wasn’t he restrained or assigned a full time staff member that we can see in the other footage? There are too many stray pieces. What we have found that might work is only ever partially usable and would be difficult to alter without obvious signs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. Damn. Damn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Jones pressed her lips together, thinking rapidly. “Very well. We include Gregorovitch in our story, then. Say he was another patient or perhaps even a staff member assigned to him. Then we can use the footage of Alex’s violent fits outside of his room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>O’Brien shook his head. “We thought of that. West and I got halfway through crafting a possible legal narrative where Alex is a mentally ill boy with delusions of being an abused super spy while Gregorovich is a psychiatric tech who sold the boy as a pawn to the Russians to embarrass us with an invented scandal. As hard as we tried to put together a collection of footage, there were always more unexpected problems trying to cast him as a staff member. Gregorovich never wore anything remotely like a uniform. Armed guards often came to check on them both, to which the contract killer was clearly deferring to or at the mercy of. He makes even less sense as a fellow patient. Why was he allowed to restrain Alex? Why did no psychiatric nurses intervene or at least check on the kid the </span>
  <em>
    <span>entire time</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hollis nodded, face grim. He turned to Jones and tapped his hand on the table. “This doesn’t even touch on another issue. Not only will the evidence we present be scrutinized, but the evidence we </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> provide will be questioned. If we offer footage of Alex having fits and insist he was a patient in Gibraltar for at least a month, then why isn’t there more footage of him doing mundane activities? There should be hours of him sitting on benches in the library or participating in arts and crafts, for god's sake. Even if we say the clips we’ve sent are the most relevant, all the Russians would have to do is request the right to sift through the rest of the footage for their own investigation. A private mental hospital is not classified or unusually protected, even if other patients are protected by privacy law. Someone in the international courts would have to be granted special access to the footage for review or it will look incredibly suspicious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Mrs. Jones dragged in a slow breath and picked up her pen. “West? Have you researched the viability of challenging custody without concern for his mental stability?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man shook his head. “I’d not recommend it. Even if we could bring one of his parents back from the grave, his last formal guardian was an American woman murdered by terrorists in Egypt under severely questionable circumstances. Previous to that, it was this bank.” West tapped his pen against the desk, eyes focusing on some distant corner of his mind. “Unless we change every record, we’ll make his abuse case for him. I’m almost certain we won’t be able to alter them all without getting caught, not at this stage. Not with the level of attention that’s already been drawn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones clasped her hands together. “In that case, I’d like your thoughts overall, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shifting in his chair, West crossed his arms. “The way I see this, our first move should be to try and nip this in the bud. Ideally, we’d find a way to persuade the kid to stop supporting the charges. Tying Smithers to the Russians will be difficult, but it’s possible to make them appear to be colluding to present false charges. Without the kid, it gets easier. Not easy; just easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would be the biggest issue facing us in that endeavor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West shrugged helplessly. “We have no leverage against the kid and he has a whole lot of motivation to see us go down in flames. With him being so hard to get to, it’s difficult to create any ourselves or communicate our threats to him discreetly, but it’s not impossible. I can’t fathom it being worth the risk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing they needed was being caught blackmailing him again. She sighed. “Our other options, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West nodded heavily. “Disappearing Alex would be a decent way to go. Smithers’ case would still move forward against us, but it would be a lot more challenging to prove urgency. Everything would slow down, even if we were suspected of making it happen. We’d have plenty of time to appeal and come up with a defense. It would still be difficult given the overwhelming amount of evidence, but it would be a better problem for us to have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you suggesting a snatch and grab?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West shrugged. “That’s one way to go, but I don’t doubt the Russians have plenty of eyes on this kid. Gregorovich certainly will go out of his way to make it difficult for us. His protected status in Russia likely depends on it, to some extent. Even if we knew where Alex is, it would only do us so much good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “So we prove that he is in danger and have him taken into another country’s custody where he will be easier to get to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be the best way to accomplish that. There is little reason to have him moved otherwise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do we have towards those ends?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very little. Again, we can loosely suggest Gregorovitch stole two cars in America. But even if we could prove it without a doubt, non-violent grand theft auto won’t sway a judge if Alex is happy and clearly well cared for. My people say there’s a ninety-something percent chance Gregorovitch committed other violent crimes, even if we haven’t tied him to them yet. The white noise files are undoubtedly instances of those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones grimaced. She’d gotten her email update this morning. “Assume those won’t be coming through any time soon. What else can we do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In our meeting with Alex, we can try to get him to indicate some kind of abuse.” West glanced at Pearson, who gestured to him to continue. All members of the current teams had consulted with one another already, and this meeting mostly served to get them all on the same page while bringing the head of MI6 up to speed on their conclusions. “We’ve already considered the options. Emotional abuse is hard to prove without recorded conversations or professional testimony, neither of which we have access to. Physical abuse is unlikely, though he shows signs of physical discomfort. All of them can be attributed to his medication withdrawals and poor health. Easy to dispute. We’ll have to wait for the results of whatever physical exams have been performed to see if we can use anything to our advantage, but the odds aren’t great. Our current favorite is trying to make a case for sexual abuse. It’s serious in nature, doesn’t necessarily leave physical signs, and even just the accusation is often enough to make a judge nervous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pearson broke in, nodding. “This does require we get access in the next month. He’ll be sixteen soon and technically able to consent. We need Alex to say something that can be interpreted as sexual abuse while he’s underage. Something that places it definitively when he is fifteen or under. If the timeline is unclear, it will likely be ignored by the courts if it appears consensual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jones waved a hand. “Do we have a list of questions prepared?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I drew one up,” Pearson assured her, putting it up on the screen. “As suggestive as possible while skirting the legal definition of leading. Even if we are penalized for steering him towards it, we still might be able to force Alex to be relocated out of concern for his well being. With the storm of publicity this case will inevitably create if it makes it through the investigation phase, no one involved is going to want to take the risk of mishandling his case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West nodded. “The optics never look good when a kid is involved and action tends to be fast. In this case, hopefully fast enough for no one to notice that despite Gregorovitch’s… extensive list of charges--” West flicked a hand at his tablet’s screen, eyebrows raised as he scrolled through them for confirmation. It took a good couple of seconds. “--none of them involve any sex crimes. Everything but, essentially. We might be able to tangentially link him to sex traffickers through Scorpia, but so far as we know about him personally, he could be a monk with a vow of chastity. We can’t even place him at a suburban strip club, much less find anything to suggest he’s a homosexual pedophile. Alex has to say something convincing or we have no case. I’d say we ask the most leading questions we’ve got and deal with the consequences later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Jones nodded. “It sounds like our best option. Make it happen. I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>West cut her off. “Just to be clear,” he said, voice slow and cautious. A few glances were shared across the table. “This is the best option </span>
  <em>
    <span>only if we need to have Alex in our reach</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The far, far safer approach would be to deny everything. Deny Alex is who he says, deny that he’s even British, deny that we know anything about him at all. He’s half erased already, we only need to finish the job. Insist he’s some crazy child the Russians have prepared and trotted out like a show pony. Witnesses can be silenced inside of our own borders; while neighbors and teachers will remember him, none were close enough to him to risk  testifying if we approach them first. Denial is the easiest position to defend and the most likely to succeed in protecting the agency.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leveled a calm, thin look at him before distributing it around the table. Cautious, rigid faces met hers. While part of her would love nothing more than to tell him her reasons were highly classified just to shut down their insistent dissent, the fact of the matter was that everyone in this room had some of the highest clearances possible; certainly high enough that trusting them with knowledge of the secret prison had been on the table once the breakout happened. Anything higher than that would implicate only herself, the prime minister, and key members of parliament. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too much digging would be problematic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was painfully ironic, but far better for them to believe her approach was a personal failing of leadership. “Be that as it may, we will be proceeding with the plan to have Alex moved into favorable custody. Focus on preparing for the interview and finding a way to fast track it before his birthday. Otherwise, decrypting those video files is priority number two. I want--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp rap on the door sounded, cutting her off. Crawley stepped in immediately without waiting, saved for only a specific set of protocol. “Ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” she asked, chest clenching with wild hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve located Alex Rider. He’s in Moscow.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday! Sorry I'm running a little late today. I'm in the process of moving, so that's been twisting my schedule out of shape. At least it's not midnight, right?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Alex?” Seamus asked, raising an eyebrow when the shorter teen didn’t answer as the seconds stretched on. “You alright there, bro?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex started. “Hm? Yes, I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure about that?” Martina asked as Seamus settled back into his seat at the lunch table. A few tables away, someone dropped their tray, almost drowning her out. Lunch hour was nearly over. In fact, half of their usual group had already hurried off to prepare for their lessons or clubs. She popped another chocolate in her mouth, twisting the wrapper between her fingers. “You were glaring at that potted plant like it assaulted your mother. Very intense. Your eyebrows were making a V-shape.” She demonstrated with her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pressed a palm to his forehead as though he could physically flatten it and huffed. “I did not. Anyway, it really is nothing. I’ve just had a bit of a headache, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, Alex wasn’t entirely sure what had come over him. One minute, he’d been eating lunch and feeling perfectly fine, and the next, he was flooded with irritation and the overwhelming desire to shotgun three edibles and call it a night. He squinted a little suspiciously out the window, but saw nothing except the snow covered lawns criss crossed by shoveled pathways for the guards to patrol, ending abruptly at the high brick walls of the campus. The gray, overcast sky seemed to squint suspiciously back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an effort, he looked back at his friends and fixed a smile on his face. It was probably just a mood swing. Glancing about for any topic that didn’t directly relate to how crazy he was, his eyes caught on Timofey’s face. “Did you--?” He caught the words before he managed to ask if he’d done his makeup differently this morning. He still wasn’t sure how much the others knew about Lada; just because Timofey didn’t make much of an effort to conceal it from Alex didn’t mean it was fair game to ask questions in front of others. Instead, he gestured at his cheekbones. “Did you lose weight?” he settled on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey beamed. “No, not exactly.” He leaned forward, a touch conspiratorially. “It’s just these new supplements I’m taking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martina grinned. “I thought I noticed your profile changing. Which ones? My mother caught me stealing her estrogen pills and keeps them in the safe now. Like she needs them more than me. She’s already old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey bobbed his hand in a so-so gesture. “They’re not exactly estrogen based. Synthetic hormones, mixed with blockers. Just to get me started until I turn eighteen and can leave the country to get the good stuff. I found this supplier online that does discreet shipping too. The site’s in Chinese, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t sound safe,” Patrice murmured, beating Alex to the punch. She glanced around the table with uncertain eyes. “Do you even know what’s in them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did my research,” Timofey snapped, fingers whitening around his fork. He dropped it on his plate with a sharp clatter. “I’m not a fool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean it that way,” Patrice whispered, eyes dropping to her lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex waded in. “Of course not, Patrice. It’s a valid worry as far as I’m concerned. You look great and I’m sure your research is solid, Tim, but are you sure they're even the right ones if the site’s in Chinese? What if they’re knockoffs or contaminated with lead or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey shrugged stiffly, glancing away. Whatever anger had latched on to Patrice seemed to release its hold, aimless but still present. He unscrewed his bottle of Coke sharply, with an angry hiss of escaping carbonation. “I know it’s a risk, but what else am I supposed to do? I’m sick of waiting. I’m sick of my body being wrong and getting more wrong by the fucking minute. I grew three inches this year. Three. It’s not stopping on it’s own, so if I don’t stop it myself, it’ll just get worse. I don’t want to be six feet tall. Surgery can only do so much and I’m already….” Timofey struggled for words, jerking a hand at himself. “--bigger, than I ever wanted to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martina flicked her wrapper on the table. “I say good for you. It’s your body. Do what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What could Alex say to that? He knew perfectly well what it was like to have the world feel wrong in a way no one else could see. To fix it with a pill he knew might hurt him. It was still hard watching someone else take that risk, though. At least he had Yassen to help him figure it out, even if it came paired with constant disapproval. He bit his lip. “Maybe your dad can help you order them? He seems… supportive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey snorted. “I’m shocked he can barely manage to humor me, having to reach so far out of my grandfather’s pocket to begin with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your grandfather?” Seamus broke in, twisting the stem of his apple so hard it broke off with a snap. Alex was confident there were Olympian long-jump medalists impressed with the conversational leap he made in his desperate bid to change the subject. “They’re both mob, right? It’s wild how many kids here have relatives in it. Or that they don’t fight more. I mean, my mom is--” and here he gave everyone an evasive glance “--well, she does finance work for, um, some groups back in the states. But the only mobster types I’ve met there are Italian. So your grandpa is the Boss and your dad is the Underboss, right? Second in command?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrice sighed. “I’m starting to think I’m at the wrong school. My parents are just lawyers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of law?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure. They don’t talk about work much. You know, non-disclosure agreements.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably at the right school, then,” Martina said absently, checking her phone and ignoring Patrice’s sputter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus turned his forcefully inquisitive look on Alex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t ask me,” Alex said, trying not to scowl. Of all the topics to pivot to, it was something he had nothing to add. “We don’t talk about work at home and I don’t ask. He’s just always on his phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey sighed, turning back to Seamus and shaking his head. He picked half heartedly at the roll on his plate. “Not quite. Underboss is a title, right? It doesn’t quite… translate, for lack of a better word. The Italian mafias are pretty consistent, from what I understand, and the Bratva is… less formally structured. More variations between gangs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex tried to help it. He really did. The words tumbled out regardless. “How do you mean? Surely there’s some order to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey’s eyes flickered to him, considering. Visibly weighed his answer. “Well, of course. It’s just more fluid. There’s almost always the same roles to be filled in any one bratva, like departments in a company, but apart from the heads, there’s rarely planned titles for the people doing the work inside those departments.” He spotted Seamus’ squint and sighed, drawing a triangle in the air with his finger tip. “Think of it like like a pyramid: the elite group makes all the decisions at the top, led by the Pakhan; the Support group and the Security group are both in the middle, and are in charge of keeping the operations going smoothly and ensuring the right people are paid off, respectively; while the bottom of the pyramid is the Working group, which is made up low-rung criminals of whatever type that bratva deals with. Prostitutes, thiefs, whatever. They are managed by the Support group. There’s also a bookkeeper, usually, who just answers to the Pahkan and is kept separate from everyone else, so they aren’t part of the pyramid. Well, sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey waved a hand, warming to the topic. Alex had to give Seamus credit-- this was an excellent segue. “Depends on what needs to get done and how many people you have to do it. Groups overlap and jobs combine. The bookkeeper is usually separate from the Support group, but in my family those roles weren’t always distinct. Sometimes the head of the Support group or the Security are the same person, if that’s what makes sense. And while the Pakhan always leads the whole Bratva and the Elite group, the rank of the other leaders can vary. Captains and boyeviks can wield similar power when all is said and done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boyeviks?” Alex asked, stumbling over the word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It means warriors. Established men, trusted to run specific, ongoing rackets and are supervised by captains. Think middle-management. They recruit new guys too. Those new guys are called associates, but not in the business sense-- more like disposable errand boys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus’ lips twisted as he thought that over. “So, who’s the underboss? Your dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes and no. My father is a captain, who happens to lead the Security group. Allegedly.” Timofey sat back in his seat. “Things like second in command are not always spelled out. Whoever is set to take over is often just stated by the Pakhan, and once that Pahkan needs to be replaced, the captains vote on whether or not to support the choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t been stated explicitly, but Timofey hadn’t said Dima </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sergey’s chosen successor. Alex worried his lip. “What happens if they vote no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bloodshed, usually,” Martina said. She drummed her fingers and tucked her phone back in her purse. “It’s kind of hard to guess how bratvas will handle that stuff. Less structure among smaller bratvas is nice because you can rise fast if you’re good or well connected, but things can get…” She made a tilting gesture with her hand. “Lopsided, I think is the word? My ex-step-dad was a captain in the Support group but made less money than another captain in the Elite group. He was always mad about it. I kept telling him he should get rid of those ugly tattoos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey rolled his eyes. “They never do. Papa had his moved to his chest so they wouldn’t show.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martina hummed. “Smart. Best of both worlds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrice furrowed her brows. “I never understood that whole thing with criminals having tattoos. Why would you do that? If you get arrested, the cops will know what it means. If you try to commit crimes while someone is watching, other people know to keep a closer eye on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martina shrugged. “It’s a respect thing. Shows you’ve proved yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it’s changing,” Timofey added. “Well, sort of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “You say sort-of a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really does depend,” Martina offered. “It’s an old-school versus the new-school problem. The old-school guys don’t mind being identified by how many people they’ve killed or whether or not they’ve been to prison. The ones who work on the streets like being known Vory. Of getting that respect.” She shrugged again. “Then, there’s groups like Timofey’s relatives--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Allegedly</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--where they do business with big corporations or the government. It does not pay to be obvious criminals now that everyone can be searched on the internet and articles can be written on bratva deals by people who’ve never even been to Moscow. Makes the business people nervous, so a lot of the bratva are voluntarily skipping tattoos or having them removed. The old school crowd is pretty upset about it-- I know someone who got stabbed for having his removed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timofey popped a piece of shredded roll in his mouth. “It’s only a matter of time. All the big money happens in boardrooms and cubicles now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted; Yassen had said much the same thing. If it wasn’t for being on the run with him and living together now, Alex might still believe most lucrative crime was more action based. He glanced at the clock hanging over the canteen line, before standing and grabbing his bag, already dreading sitting through class. That weird moodiness had returned without him realizing precisely when. Hopefully, his tincture could take the edge off. “See you in art,” he said to Seamus.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lawyer’s office was located on the opposite end of the city from Sergey’s family holdings. A small, private practice that specialized in family law for the wealthy, it was tastefully installed in a renovated, yet architecturally intricate bank that was likely built sometime in the forties and located on a relatively busy street. While the lawyer's mafia ties were obvious to the contract killer, they didn’t necessarily concern him now: Sergey was one of many clients. While Sergey’s branch would no doubt assist the lawyer as much as he assisted them, their business relationship would not extend to physical surveillance. A few guards patrolled the property, dressed in suits reminiscent of doormen, mostly there for show. Security was good for a mere lawyer’s office, but not impossible to circumvent: cameras, alarms, and a technical specialist to ensure their digital security was top notch. It was obvious that the features of the bank itself were being relied upon to do the rest of the job; the thick walls, limited windows and entrances making it unlikely to be penetrated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting across the street in a quaint cafe with a small fireplace that crackled cheerfully across from him, Yassen sipped his coffee and stared down at his little iPod’s screen. He’d researched the building's records and it’s listed occupants thoroughly over the course of the weekend, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers’ tech was convenient, though not the bulk of his approach. (He knew better than to rely too much on the goodwill of others, though he trusted the gadget man not to make his life unduly problematic in the short term.) It was a little tempting to ask if Alex could kill some of the security features for him with his upgraded device, but he dismissed the idea before it could fully form. Not only would the fingerprint scanner require Alex to be directly involved in mafia business, the gadget master’s warning rang in his head about using the white noise feature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wouldn’t be wise to tie them to any crimes in Moscow, not this late in the game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At any rate, Yassen had a few other ideas. A little more cumbersome but perfectly do-able. Getting in wouldn’t be the trickiest part-- installing surveillance that wouldn’t be detected or traceable was the real challenge. He’d need a bit of preparation, but it wouldn’t take long before Dima had all the information he wanted and Yassen could finally get some perspective on Sergey’s familial spats. A valuable use of his time away from the office, not that he found his contract work strenuous; frankly, the most arduous part of his coordinating work was familiarizing himself with the shifting operatives in Scorpia’s network. Many of the permanently installed assets Yassen had expected to use seemed to have switched regions or been otherwise unavailable, though there were certainly enough to replace them. It was just a small headache, if that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his pocket, one of his two phones rang. He fished it out, reading Vankin’s name on the little readout. With a grimace, he answered. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin got right to the point. “Can you talk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m out getting coffee,” Yassen said. The cafe was only half occupied, but due to the cold, most occupants had clustered near the fireplace. Yassen had joined them, mostly for the sake of not sticking out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And to be fair, he wasn’t just getting coffee-- he was also eating pastry. Ordinarily, he wasn’t so snack-ish nor drawn to such sweet things, but now there was a special pleasure in getting to enjoy such treats without having them stolen by a mid-pubescent bandit with a vexingly mercenary attitude towards food sharing and ownership. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tore off a corner of the pastry and chewed it with more focus than he usually gave the task. The boy had always been inclined to make the occasional sneak-attack on Yassen’s food while they were on the run, though it had been infrequent and largely done playfully. Now it was almost every day. Yassen wasn’t particularly food possessive; he was more baffled and annoyed than anything else. There wasn’t any point, not that he could tell: they generally ate the exact same things and the assassin was always more than willing to procure more if the boy was hungry. What about it being Yassen’s made it that much more appealing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need only listen. This is more of an update,” Vankin responded. “MI6 has definitely received notice of the official charges. They have, as anticipated, requested access to Alex for interviews and their own assessments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t remotely unexpected, of course. It simply means that they’re going to fight the charges rather than pin it on Jones or Blunt, disown them, and hope the media coverage dies down fast. We’re proceeding according to plan and dragging our feet on giving them access. Alex’s health and happiness must be priority number one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen quashed the impulse to roll his eyes. Priority number one was finishing their own assessments first, no doubt. “Very well. Has a date been set?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assuming my superiors aren’t feeling any pressure, we might be able to stall a few months. It may be sooner, but I will try to let you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine.” There was little to be gained tactically from stalling, since they would certainly interview Alex one way or another. A break would be good for the boy, though. Give Yassen time to emotionally prepare him. “Anything else I should know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just try to keep you and the kid out of trouble. His case is pretty strong, all things considered and should excuse your presence for at least a few years. Don’t weaken it and my superiors will be happy enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hung up and set his phone down, taking another sip of coffee. There was that security shop nearby that sold intelligence grade surveillance under the table, the same one he’d used to get his infrared and power detector. While he’d made no real effort to hide his anti-surveillance equipment purchases from Scorpia, he hadn’t advertised it either and moving forward, he would need to rely on their discretion. A cash transaction should prevent word from reaching Scorpia that he’d been there, as well as leave little record of his purchases. It should be a simple matter, so assuming everything went to plan, he could have surveillance installed within a day or two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone rang a second time. An unidentified number flashed across the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen frowned. He’d programmed all the relevant ones in his phone already, of course. Vankin. His SVR assistants. Alex’s school. Alex himself. His mafia contract work was handled through his second phone and even if he’d found the number, Dima couldn’t be stupid enough to try to contact him on the same one the SVR did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” he answered, after the third ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers greeted him in Russian. “Mr. Makovich, I’m calling to confirm your therapy appointment with Dr. Roza on the thirteenth of next month?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have the wrong number,” Yassen said and hung up. He glanced at the clock on the mantle above the fireplace and scowled ever so slightly, glancing back across the street before he stood to gather his things. Undoubtedly, his call with Smithers would run annoyingly long. If he left now, he might be able to get ahold of the stupid man with his iPod and make it to the surveillance shop before Alex got out of school.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen wasn’t exactly optimistic, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Chapter 37</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: HAPPY MONDAY!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben stared at the men sat next to him round the table. They’d picked the same pub as the one he and Wolf had last time, mostly for the sake of convenience rather than any real desire for the lackluster food and the bare minimum of service. On a Monday night, things moved at a trickle, drawing very little local custom and only a handful of tourist groups. Despite the steady music and the loud laughter of the large group of Americans six tables over providing decent noise cover, the men sitting around the booth stared at their pints and offered little to one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle was the first to break. “So this reeks of utter horseshit,” he said, taking a neat swallow of his drink. “Operation Nannycam. Seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf grimaced. “Why make ourselves known to them? Alex is in Moscow. We should go get him. Sic some lawyers on them, at least. Not… play house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben sighed. His own briefing had been separate and short, but from what he understood, his old SAS team had gotten the distilled version of their orders from their sergeant and been sent on to London to rendezvous with him. No doubt it was up to Agent Daniels to fill in the missing pieces. “There’s reasons for all of it, but I won’t lie: it doesn’t get much better. Horseshit isn’t far off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake picked at his crisps, but didn’t actually eat any. “For being on the front lines, this feels incredibly shady. We’re just supposed to live across the street from them and make a point of being seen? What good will that do? This is the least viable recovery mission I’ve ever seen, as it doesn’t actually involve any intent to recover him and seems geared towards frightening them into bolting again. I suppose this all rather par for the course for this spy stuff, but I have more questions than I started with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben tilted his head. “You’re not wrong. The truth is that we can’t just grab Alex since he and Gregorovitch have managed to strike some sort of deal with the Russian government for protection. Given Alex’s charges against MI6, siccing our lawyers on him--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charges?” Wolf demanded as Eagle choked on his pint. “What charges?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben pressed his fingertips against his forehead, as though he could physically pin his thoughts in place. “I suppose I’m to brief you on that as well.” He cleared his throat and took a long couple of seconds to gather his thoughts. It was complicated, but Ben really wanted to rip this bandaid off quickly. “Alex has been utilized by MI6 several times, at great personal risk, with extremely dubious consent. As in, reading through the charges leveled and the proposed evidence, I can quite confidently say that he was blackmailed into service on more than one occasion and not once properly compensated for his injuries, suffering, and effort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf was the first to speak. “You mean to tell me that </span>
  <em>
    <span>every</span>
  </em>
  <span> time we ran into him since camp--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even in camp,” Snake muttered. “He wasn’t happy to be there either, but we just thought his parents--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was in prison,” Eagle reminded them, seemingly unable to rip his eyes from his glass. He groaned and took another large swallow. “He shot some kid and wound up in prison, sick in the head. After being blackmailed into that situation in the first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, now we know for sure where he got his PTSD,” Wolf snapped, folding his arms. “It all certainly explains why he’s so damn crazy. And the drugs. And his utter refusal to cooperate with anyone remotely connected to MI6 in Kingman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben nodded slowly, gaze transfixed on his own fingertips for some reason. Definitely not guilt. Definitely not the endless miasma of growing discomfort and horror as he replayed every interaction he’d ever had with the kid, every situation he’d encountered him in, with new, less forgiving eyes. “There’s a lot I don’t know. A lot I’ve had to put together myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are the charges?” Snake asked, leaning forward. “Do they include those mystery drugs we were never able to properly identify? I’ve been looking into it from time to time, but I still can’t find a single hint of what they--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those were hormonal suppressants designed to keep him from aging into suspicion so that they could continue using him as an undercover agent,” Ben allowed. He couldn’t tell his teammates about Smithers-- yet-- but he could share what was already on record without concern, even if it hadn’t been provided in relation to the mission. “Allegedly. According to the charges, they are experimental, fairly unsafe, and produce a number of serious psychiatric side effects, many of which can present similarly to sudden schizophrenia. Hallucinations. Violent, erratic behavior. Delusional thinking. I’ll show you the full list on the first plane. We leave tonight on the same flight for the first leg of the journey, pending further information. Once we land in Germany, we’ll be split up and sent on our way separately. They haven’t quite nailed down their exact address, but they will soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle cleared his throat. “Delusional thinking explains his ‘Yassen is my mum’ ramblings. What’s the assassin’s game in all of this? Using Alex as his pawn to get the Russians to offer him a deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shrugged. “I have no idea. As far as I know, Alex is still voluntarily with him. That’s where we come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We kill the guy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Wolf.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf gave him a flat look. “Kill the guy discreetly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have extremely clear orders to not attempt anything of the sort,” Ben told him. “Not Gregorovich. You saw his list of charges-- he’s way beyond our paygrade. No. Our mission is essentially the same as in Kingman, minus taking Alex into custody. Be there, be familiar. Make sure he knows he can come to us in a pinch. Entice him to agree to return to Britain and drop the charges, if possible. Otherwise, we are to surveil them as much as possible without running afoul with the authorities. Provide any evidence possible that Alex is being mistreated or unsafe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake’s lips thinned and his lips tightened. “Does anyone here really think that would be best for him if we succeed? They wanted us to still give him those injections in Kingman even after he’d run away from them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben winced. “I don’t think it would be best for him, no, but I also don’t know his situation at the moment. His current circumstances might be worse. We really don’t understand the nature of their relationship, or exactly what Gregorovitch is getting out of this arrangement. At any rate, we have our orders. We go out, we play friendly neighbors, we make our presence known. We can evaluate the situation ourselves when we get there and have more information.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf glowered at nothing in particular. “I hate this. This can’t be anything good and we’re being weaponized against the kid. What’s next? New orders to stab him with more of that dodgy hormone stuff?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” Snake snapped. “If the side effects are even one tenth as bad as Ben says, there’s no way we can risk that. Not with Alex already unstable and abusing god knows what else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle crossed his arms. “I know we have our orders and I don’t like them, but what else can we do? Ben said he has no family to contact. He’s stuck in Russia with a crazy, murderous, possible pederast for all we know. Somehow, impossibly, going home might even be worse for him. What options does the kid even have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did. Either way, we’ll just have to play it by ear. With any luck, we’ll be able to establish some kind of contact with him and figure out what he thinks of all this. He may even know some things we don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was only after they’d gone their separate ways-- the rest of the unit back to headquarters, since they’d been transferred immediately and had been provided with everything they needed, while Ben needed to run back to his apartment to pack before he was equipped with any specialized gear-- that Ben finally found a free minute to pull out his little electronic planner and update Smithers. He had mere minutes, leading him to give the mostly chicken-scratch version of his mission orders and a quick note that he’d update the man again as soon as he was able to. He’d probably be in Russia by then, but that was almost beside the point. He couldn’t wait to unload all of his suspicions on the mysterious gadget master who seemed to at least have his priorities in the correct order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much of this mission stank of treachery: he’d barely scratched the surface with his team members. For starters, why send in specialized soldiers if combat was absolutely off the table? Why not more than one agent? Ben was also the only one in the group who was even trained in urban surveillance to the degree that would be needed. It wasn’t even their primary goal, being seen and enticing the boy to come home was. None of them had any understanding of child psychology. Their main skill sets were useless, comparatively speaking, so why incur the cost of keeping all of them on payroll to sit around a flat in Russia and do essentially nothing? The mission had no official end date, which meant it had just been waved past the penny pinchers as too important to downgrade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They didn’t even know the boy particularly well. If they were trying to tug at his heart strings and lure him back into their grasp, wouldn’t his actual friends be better suited to the job? Now that he thought about… did Alex even have friends? Probably. At least Ben hoped he did. Even some letters or phone calls from his schoolmates would be more effective. Unless the kid was a social outcast, the assholes who’d picked on him in basic training were hardly the best choice for this job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Ben felt like his and Alex’s relationship had at least improved somewhat from that initial impression, he couldn’t exactly say that there was more than a passing amount of trust or familiarity between the two of them. Hell, Ben would actually say he knew Smithers better than he did Alex. They certainly didn’t know much about each other. Most of what Ben knew about the kid, while not shooting his godfather in the head or pulling him out of horrible situations, had been gleaned from MI6’s dubious files or gathered from Smithers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was MI6 playing at?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might not know the exact answer, but all signs pointed to some sort of covert action that had yet to be finalized. Some sort of tactical move in the future that would almost certainly require violence at the right moment. Their mission had been presented as simple, but it would certainly be anything but once Jones made up her damn mind; Ben could feel every instinct within him screaming it. He had to let Smithers know as soon as possible, though something told him they had at least a few weeks before anything happened. Not that it made him feel much better: the board had been set, the players were just taking their sweet time evaluating their moves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopefully, someone would be able to cover Alex through all of this. Daniels wasn’t entirely confident it would be him, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Chapter 38</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Sorry I haven't been responding to anyone as of late. This last two weeks have been spent on one of this pandemic's classic activities-- moving back in with my parents as an adult. For those of you wondering, yes, moving in the winter is just as awful as it sounds.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex raised an eyebrow as he dropped his bag on the little bench by the door, brushing snow off of his coat before hanging it from the peg above it. Yassen was already on the balcony, smoke whipping away from him as the wind grabbed it. He stubbed out his cigarette and nodded as Alex passed by, intent on the fridge for his after school snack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weird. Something must have happened, Alex decided, as he grabbed a small carton of strawberry yogurt. He peeled off the lid and crushed the plastic until the pink goop pushed past the lip where he could get at it with his tongue. Since he’d started working for Dima properly, Yassen had almost never been home before him unless they were due for some sort of testing or assessment. Obviously something was up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen came inside only a second or two later. “Just get a spoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t feel like it,” Alex told him, slurping a trickle of yogurt from the side of the carton before it could reach his fingers. He glanced back up at Yassen. “What happened? You’ve got that look on your face like something happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a flat look. “I don’t have a look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes. “You do, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right in that I need to talk to you, though nothing has strictly happened.” Yassen gave him a minute before pulling out one of the bar chairs from the counter and nodding at Alex to do the same. “I just wanted to update you on a few things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shrugging, Alex plopped down into his seat and took another swipe of yogurt. He had a few maths problems he wanted to work on today, so hopefully this wouldn’t run on too long or Yassen would insist his school work infiltrate those evening hours Alex would really rather spend laying about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MI6 knows where we are,” Yassen said without any preamble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex clenched his fist, sending yogurt oozing down his hand. “You mean Russia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, Moscow. They will likely have our address in a day or so. Smithers contacted me and we discussed the issue. Apparently, he has an informant on the inside who says that the mission so far is to only surveil us.” Yassen glanced out the large windows of their front room at the multi-story buildings and distant city beyond the balcony. The warm glow of sunlight was only just visible, unobscured by snow or haze and gleaming off whatever glass it encountered. “You will almost certainly be approached sooner or later, but the odds that they will try to abduct you are very low. For now. With the court proceedings as they are and the close attention paid to us by the SVR, it would be fairly easy to legally tie them to your disappearance even in the unlikely event that they succeed. I doubt they will risk it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s entire body felt like a coiled spring. “You don’t understand,” he ground out. “They won’t care. They didn’t care about other agencies knowing they were renting me out, so why would they care if the SVR can figure out they were the ones who took me? Even if you can prove it, it won’t stop them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t let it happen,” Yassen said firmly. “You forget the advantages we have. Smithers is keeping a close eye on the situation from within MI6. The names of the operatives have already been confirmed and passed along to the SVR. Not only will you be under their watchful gaze, so will they.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If they have the names of the operatives coming to stalk us, why don’t they just refuse to let them enter the country?” Alex demanded. “Why not force them to go back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head, still infuriatingly unbothered. “Because it’s better to play along. MI6 has a very limited hand to play. By not tipping them off that we know what it is, we buy ourselves the opportunity to guide them how we wish. If the SVR were to block them from entering, MI6 would know there is an active mole in their ranks somewhere. Not only would that sever a useful channel for us, it might force them to enact a more desperate alternative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we’ll let them come and hang out next door.” Alex frowned at the messy plastic carton, dropping it on the countertop with a grimace. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. “Fucking hell. What do you mean by approach me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged and stood, not pausing in his explanation as he grabbed a protein bar from the package Alex had left on the counter this morning. “They will likely try to establish contact with you or curry good favor somehow. MI6 is facing a mountain of evidence, thanks to Smithers, which should be difficult to invalidate so long as everything goes according to plan and they don’t pull out any tricks. Their best options are either to get you to drop the charges and return to Britain or to discredit you entirely. They’ve already requested their own series of interviews and evaluations for the latter, so this team will likely be geared towards the former.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not doing more interviews and evaluations. Not for them,” Alex snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t be soon, but you will have to do them. Technically, they have the right to conduct their own investigation so long as it is within reason.” Yassen waved a hand, tearing open the wrapper of the chocolate banana protein bar with his teeth. “Vankin will stall as long as possible. Not for any particular motive other than pettiness, but the SVR  will not make it easy for them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glared at his hands. “Great. That will just give them more time to prove that I’m crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen inclined his head. “They will likely try, but there are several angles they might find just as viable, one of which is finding a way to suggest that your testimony is manufactured or somehow being coerced. Just prepare yourself for any contact by MI6. In the meantime, I want to take a few precautions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precautions,” Alex repeated. He crossed his arms. “I thought you said the odds I’ll get snatched are low.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are, but I also don’t want them contacting you while you are alone,” Yassen informed him, jaw setting slightly. “So we will not give them the chance. I will escort you to school every morning and in the afternoons when I can get off of work early. When I can’t, come straight here. Don’t linger on the metro or in the city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes. “I definitely won’t look like some kind of hostage if they never see me outside the apartment without you accompanying me.” He let out a slow exhale, willing the flickers of dread and anxiety to abate to something more manageable. Yassen seemed to know an awful lot about this and if Smithers was giving them intel, it was probably reliable. “If I’m not to look coerced, I have to be seen living a normal life. I don’t want to be stuck at either the school, the flat, or the doctor’s office. It’s not normal for boys my age. If they’re going to surveil me, let them get all sorts of footage of me seeming very much not kidnapped and you clearly unworried about me roaming unattended.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced. “I won’t say you’re wrong, but my concerns are more security based. They can think whatever they like about me so long as they can’t harass you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted. “I’m really quite used to it; I’ve gotten even better at dodging them. I told you I once jumped on a hot air balloon to avoid talking to Crawley once, right?” He sighed. “Besides, we both know they could grab me if they really, really wanted to. An armed attack with a good plan could compromise the school pretty quickly. This apartment isn’t siege proof. We’re already counting on them just not being willing to take the risk or put in the effort required.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Point taken.” Setting down his half finished power bar, Yassen drummed his fingers ever so slightly on the countertop. “You will still need to be extra cautious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, I will.” Alex slid off his bar stool, preparing to rinse his hands. The pink globs of dairy were already getting tacky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen put his hand on Alex’s forearm, halting him. “Promise me you won’t steal any more pills. You cannot count on being unobserved, even with your iPod. Especially with your iPod. They’ve already linked the white noise to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex felt his stomach bottom out. “You mean--” he swallowed and stared at the floor. “--so when I stole the Vicodin at school, I led them to us? That's how they found us in Moscow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t break his gaze from Alex’s face. “I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. It was going to happen eventually. If you did, you just changed the timeline. Just promise me you won't steal anything else. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded mutely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise,” the man insisted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, fine,” Alex muttered, glancing up only briefly to find Yassen still staring at him intently. “I promise. Nothing else. No more stealing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen relaxed, releasing his arm and watching Alex circle the countertop to rinse his hands in the sink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teen stared moodily at the water as it flowed from the faucet. Truthfully, he wasn’t surprised that they had been found-- despite Yassen’s suggestions much earlier that it would happen on a long enough timeline, Alex hadn’t really confronted the idea until he’d agreed to testify. Obviously, if he were a witness, he’d have to be accessible eventually, and he’d known better than to think some U.N. court would manage to keep a secret like that even if they tried. Still, to think that they’d found him this early into things, all because Alex had gotten sloppy… it made his stomach clench. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if the man said it wasn't a big deal, he was probably still disappointed in him. Anything related to Alex using drugs always seemed to, eventually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen tapped him on the shoulder, nodding to the living room. “Let’s go over your judo technique again. You’ve almost got the circular throw figured out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do have it figured out,” Alex grumbled, shutting off the water. They’d spent most of the weekend after Alex had sobered up on learning some of the basics. So far, Judo seemed alright. Alex certainly preferred it to being woken up early to do pushups and whatever fresh hell of reps Yassen was in the mood for. “I just don’t want to slam my head and back against the very unforgiving floor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t get to choose your environment if you need to use the move,” Yassen reminded him, not for the first time, as they lifted the coffee table out of the way. “Though I think I will invest in some mats. There are some more complicated moves I want to show you and there’s no point in you injuring yourself learning the early motions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would make it much easier,” Alex admitted. He looked down at himself, still in his school uniform. It wasn’t terribly restrictive with how loose it still was, but he only had so many pieces to work with before he’d have to order more. Dirtying it wouldn’t be so much of a problem as ripping something-- Jack had shown him once, but Alex couldn’t really remember how to mend. “Hold on a minute. I should change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was part truth and part misdirect. Alex turned to go, but swiped the last of Yassen’s power bar off the counter as he darted away, earning him an annoyed huff that pleased him to no end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hurrying to his bedroom, Alex munched on the last of the chocolate and pulled on a pair of sweats and a loose, thin jersey that he mostly wore as nightclothes anyway. He spared a glance at his writing desk, already full of notes and practice questions from what he’d managed to accomplish over the weekend. Truthfully, he should do at least a few problems now if he didn’t want to get stuck doing any later. He hissed through his teeth and crumpled the wrapper. Around dinner, Yassen was going to insist on an hour of the news anyway and Alex could just do it in front of the telly then. It wouldn’t be the worst thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Chapter 39</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Monday, everyone!</p><p>Trigger warning: this chapter delves into the backstory of Dima and Lada, so it deals heavily with trans issues, specifically those of a parent being openly hostile to their trans child when confronted with the topic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The restaurant was a nice one, Yassen assured Dima as the man proudly gave him the tour of yet another one of his properties. It wasn’t even a polite lie. The handsome two story brick and steel building had once been an old aluminum foundry in the thirties and forties. Only the brick and the rows of casement windows remained, though Dima seemed to have gone to great trouble in his renovations to preserve them. The interior was now all gleaming natural woods and industrial chic decor, modern yet comfortable. Planters had been built into the dividers between dining areas, boasting a surprising amount of live foliage that seemed at odds with the overcast sky glowering at them through the windows beyond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima gestured to him to take a seat at their table on the second floor. It was quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, since according to the mobster, they only made the first level available during weekday lunch hours. His bodyguards had taken up their post at the bottom of the stairwell to ensure no wanderers interrupted them. “The plants are a nice touch, right?” Dima flicked the edge of a bright green leaf, smirking a little as it bobbed. “Expensive as hell to maintain--” he pointed to the hanging metal light fixtures. “--those are special grow lights, when winter is not feeling friendly with the sun, and don’t even get me started on the watering system-- but I can’t help it. I’ve grown fond of my little urban jungle. They’ve done studies, you know. It’s good for the air. The mind, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow Yassen wasn’t surprised. A few minutes later, once a server dressed all in black had delivered their food and left, the contract killer turned to his old friend. “I suppose I can offer you some peace of mind myself. The surveillance is up and running.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima grinned at him. “That fast? I expected longer. I hear his security is quite good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “For a lawyer with their own building to manage, yes. It was hardly world class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you do it? Unless that is a trade secret.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your wife’s lawyer likes to display his awards behind his desk, according to a photo on his website. I simply arranged for a duplicate to be made and replaced the original.” Yassen speared a vegetable on his fork and gave Dima a wry look. “The audio device is in the base, while the camera is the same color as the etching. No one second guesses what appears to be clear and empty glass; they are more likely to search and break open opaque items first. As for the speed at which it was installed, I must confess I got lucky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How so?” Dima asked, starting in on his own lunch. Yassen had to suppress the urge to watch Dima chew-- it was one of the specific motions in which the halves of his face didn’t quite move in sync. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The office upgraded to a wireless printing system just over two weeks ago. It’s still glitchy with their operating systems and they’re constantly reinstalling drivers. The usual new tech problems. Fortunately for us, it simply offered an opening to disguise our connection within their own. Any increase in the amount of bandwidth it uses will be blamed on the constant fiddling required to keep the print queue working. Their technical specialist’s credentials are in network security; he’s used to maintaining firewalls, not troubleshooting office equipment. So long as it works, he won’t risk digging around and upsetting whatever balance keeps the printers going. I found a lot of angry post-it notes between him and the secretary over the issue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima raised an eyebrow. “You figured that out in four days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged again. Truthfully, Smithers iPod had been a big help: he’d spent a good forty minutes yesterday listening to a secretary gripe to her coworkers about the backed up print jobs and how lazy the specialist must be. “I’ve done similar things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do I access the feeds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pulled a slip of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket and handed it over. “Web interface. Go to that address and use those login credentials. Only on a secure computer, of course.” He waited until Dima tucked the information away before he gave the man a pointed look. “I imagine your desire to listen in on your wife’s lawyer is related to the larger problems you face at the office?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s lips twisted. “You would be correct. It really is a headache, but I did promise to explain. I’m not sure where to start.” He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text with a sigh. “If we’re going to get into that, we are going to need alcohol.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the same waiter had dropped off a bottle at their table and made himself scarce, Yassen shrugged, more or less ignoring his glass. While the last few months had sent him on his way to becoming a regular drinker, he would technically consider himself on the job. Not that Dima would appreciate that distinction. “Start wherever you like. Complication is nothing new to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well. Perhaps I should start as far back as I can.” Dima took a long, pensive sip of his glass. “Sergey didn’t like me much before I married Katya. At the time, I was just a low level foot soldier who barely made it into the organization. I wasn’t unusually skilled, nor particularly cunning. He also considered me uncouth among other things, not that he was wrong. He wasn’t wealthy or important himself at the time-- our bratva was smaller then and was much less sophisticated. He was only a captain but he had that old money attitude anyway, with those old money expectations. Katya wasn’t supposed to get knocked up at seventeen by worthless street trash like myself, yet there we were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he was begrudgingly impressed when I came forward. I didn’t apologize for the pregnancy, only for the manner by which it troubled him. Assured him that I’d marry her and make an honest woman of her to the best of my abilities. I might be twenty and penniless, but if he would allow it, I would work hard to be whatever kind of son in law he wanted. She hardly had any better suitors and honestly, I think he knew perfectly well what kind of woman she was. Most people did,” Dima said with a grimace, though it was only a light one. “Katya marrying me was only slightly better than giving birth to a bastard out of wedlock, but at least I was willing to be moulded so he reluctantly gave us his blessing. At any rate, I kept my word to him and did whatever he asked. Breaking legs and killing traitors wasn’t really my forte, but it proved my loyalty just the same. He might not have chosen me under different circumstances, but he was satisfied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When Timofey was born, he was overjoyed. He couldn't help it, I think. We named him for Sergey’s father. Sergey might not like me, but he always wanted a son; they’d barely managed to have Katya without them both nearly dying in the process and for whatever reason it left Svetlana infertile. But now he had a grandson to be his legacy. I think it was one of his biggest motivators in helping me, truthfully; paving the way for Timofey. He bought us a small apartment and paid for my surgery. He rose in rank until he eventually took over and I was along for the ride. You know I’ve always been more of a talker than a fighter anyway and by the time the twins were born, I was off the streets and doing what I do best; twisting people’s arms over the phone and managing negotiations. Everything was working perfectly. Beyond my wildest dreams, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shrugged and glanced out the window then. “When I’d offered to marry Katya, I was hoping for a roof over my head and food in my stomach three times a day. Paradise, no? Grigory had just gone to prison and I was completely alone. I had nothing to lose. Sergey rising as high as he did was a surprise. It almost didn’t seem real. Here I was, having started life with less value than an empty bottle of shoe polish and suddenly I was Obschak, living in my nice apartment with my three children and pretty wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you proud?” Yassen asked him at length when Dima kept staring out the window without saying anything. He almost didn’t ask. It certainly wasn’t relevant. It didn’t stop him from wondering, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or for a small part of him to feel proud on his friend's behalf. Just a tiny bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima considered his half full plate, but made no move to pick up his fork. “Sometimes. A little. Mostly I just felt lucky. Sometimes I would wake in the middle of the night, expecting a gust of wind to have blown my life down like a tower of cards.” Dima took another sip, glancing up at Yassen and shrugging. “I wouldn’t even say I was happy, necessarily. Just far less miserable than expected. Katya was still running around behind my back-- it wasn’t a surprise, but it was frustrating how little she hid it-- and my kids were unholy terrors. I avoided being home, though when I was, I went straight to my study. I wasn’t a bad husband and father, per se. Not like mine was. I never raged or got drunk in front of them, never beat my family. I just avoided them so that we could all pretend everything was perfect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered his old friend, who’d again fallen silent. Studied his face. “But children aren’t always good at pretending. Not for long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima toasted him with his glass, acknowledging his guess as correct. “I would say that Timofey rather got tired of it after a time. Katya was home even less than I was once the girls turned four or five, but we both noticed it then and we both decided to ignore it. To hope he grew out of it. He helped us with that, at first. When I caught him wearing his mother’s clothes or makeup, he’d make an excuse: he was just playing, he was doing a dare, etc. etc. One of us might scold him, but neither of us wanted to deal with it. It was better to just encourage him to hide it. For the love of god, to do whatever it took to hide it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was thirteen when his patience wore thin. Starting getting snappish about how he was supposed to wear his hair and clothes, about what should be expected of a boy or not. Complained that he didn’t get to choose what standards he was held to. I would scold him for starting fights with his sisters, but I still wanted to pretend. Then one day, Katya calls me furious. Said I hadn’t corrected him enough as the man of the house. The school had summoned her because he’d arrived as normal, then quickly ran into the bathroom and changed into a girls uniform. He was sent to the headmaster’s office immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Katya was calling because she was in Greece with a ‘friend’ and obviously I was failing as a husband and father to have not handled this already and let it ruin her vacation. I made my excuses to Sergey and retrieved my son from school. He was quiet the whole drive home. Wouldn’t even look at me. When he finally mustered up the courage, he asked me if I was angry and I went off. I shouted at him, I said every furious, horrible thing I could think of to shame him, I even slapped him across the head.” Dima took a stiff swallow and twisted his lips. “I’d given myself so much credit for never being as bad as my old man, but all it took was me being </span>
  <em>
    <span>embarrassed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to suddenly become him. I might not have disfigured him physically, but I can’t pretend that what I did to him wasn’t equal. I ripped apart his room, made him burn all of his girl things, and repeat that he was a boy over and over until I was sick of hearing his voice. Here was the wind coming to blow my life away, it had just come disguised as my son. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you might imagine, my methods were less than effective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen inclined his head. After a second, he took a sip of his own drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To give him credit, it had taken a long time for him to work up the nerve to do that at school in the first place. My fury netted six more months of silence before he tried again. And again. Every time, I’d pick him up, scream at him, try to figure out the meanest thing I could do to him to get him to just stop. To try harder to be normal. Why wasn’t he just trying harder? Instead, he just withdrew until he could try again, while I would struggle to figure out how to stop it the next time without drawing attention to the problem. It was probably the fourth time I had to bribe the headmaster into not contacting Katya that it finally got through to me. Through all my raging, I’d been trying to fix this part of him, when in reality, he was trying to fix what was wrong too. There just was no defective part-- this was him. All of him. The only defective part of the whole equation was me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All I wanted from my own father, as a child, was to be left alone. He would come home drunk and every night I’d pray he’d pass out quickly. The nights that happened were the good ones and I’d live in dread of the next time he didn’t. That fourth time I brought Timofey home in a skirt, his head down, obviously praying that I’d take my rage out on him fast, I realized that not only was I not a good parent, I hadn’t even give him the ambivalence I’d craved of my own father.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mobster fished out his pack of cigarettes from his coat, passing Yassen one without preamble and lighting up. “So that’s what I did that night. I left him alone. I locked myself in my home office and drank until I could accept reality, then I looked at the studies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassene couldn’t quite help his snort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima gave him a small, rueful smile. “Of course I did. How could I not? Actually, it was the first time in a long time that I had. I’d studied parenting when he’d first been born, but once my children had gotten old enough that when they fell over it wasn’t as hilarious, I took a step back. Now, I was trying to understand him for the first time in years. It wasn’t exactly reassuring, because all the research papers and published journals-- the reputable ones, anyway-- confirmed what I feared: this probably was how he was going to be forever, until he either died of natural causes or killed himself. I couldn’t pick whether he was supposed to be a boy or girl, but I could help pick his cause of death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It didn’t matter anymore what we’d done wrong raising him or if this was just some genetic proclivity,” Dima went on, taking a slow, long pull of his cigarette. He exhaled and flicked it to the side. “The fact of the matter was that he couldn’t change what he was, so I was going to have to change what kind of father I was. Honestly, it was for the best. By all measures, he’d spent most of his life trying not be what he is and couldn’t, yet here I had been trying to berate him into pretending otherwise, all to defend the image of a life that didn’t even make me happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t sober up enough to handle this until about four AM, at which point I shambled to his room and woke him up. He was upset, terrified of what fresh hell of a punishment I was going to subject him to this time. Didn’t seem to know what to do when I told him that I finally understood that he was a girl on the inside and that I would help him as much as I could, but that he was going to have to listen to me and be a boy sometimes on the outside until he was an adult. I don’t know why he even listened to me: I was obviously a drunken mess, but he did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t say it went perfectly, because it didn’t. I was still very new at parenting properly and still dealing with a teenager. We’d make one agreement and suddenly he’d push the limits and try to argue technicalities in order to do as he pleased. Even showed up to school as Lada once or twice more. The twins were less than gracious about it. Explaining didn’t help them because at eleven they thought they knew what the world ought to be and finally complained to their mother in enough detail that she realized I wasn’t punishing his behavior anymore. I wasn’t trying to lie to her, per se, I just didn’t want to involve her. She would only make it worse and there was little I could do to stop her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered his own empty glass. When had that happened? He’d only meant to have a sip. Ah well. He glanced back up at his friend. “Based on the timing, I surmise that’s when the divorce talks began?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little before, actually.” Dima shrugged and stubbed out what little remained of his cigarette. “Katya and I weren’t ever really in love, so our marriage was more of a contract anyway. She liked how I didn’t give her much trouble over her ways, and I had only married her for the life I hoped to have. She was furious about Lada, but our marriage wasn’t the issue. I don’t think she even cares to end it now. It was when she complained to Sergey that this got out of hand.” Dima grimaced and poured himself another drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen let him refill his glass. “I take it he was less understanding than his daughter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would be correct.” Dima sipped his drink. “Only he didn’t rage as I did. The disdain was there, certainly, but he has always had iron self control. It’s what got him to the top. Instead, he sat me down to discuss the matter of his legacy. I’d hoped to reason with him, to persuade him that his grandson didn’t have to follow him into the business, even if he’s smart enough and has a head for it. It did no good. It’s not what Sergey hopes for, and his hopes don’t have any room for Lada to exist at all. What he wanted to do was to send him for treatment, to a special camp that calls itself a ‘reformation center’. He’d already selected one and gotten Katya to sign the release forms. All it needed was my signature.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How bad?” Yassen asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Awful. Even the website doesn’t bother dressing it up. They are going to torture him into behaving as desired, essentially. It’s not like performing surgery, about trying to cut away an unwanted part. It’s a sledgehammer of coercion, designed to break him down so they can rebuild him into whatever they are paid to.” Dima shook his head and poured himself another drink. “I couldn’t do that to him. I refused to sign. It requires both guardian's signatures, given the severe nature of their methods.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hence the divorce.” Yassen nodded. His cup was half empty again. He was nowhere near drunk, though he should probably slow down. “Katya wants full custody, I suppose. Your signature would cease to be necessary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. Unfortunately for her, her indiscretion has played wildly in my favor. Once I realized which way the wind was blowing, I started talking to my own lawyers. Documented everything. How often she’s home, how little involvement she’s had in the children’s lives. I dug up text messages in which she consistently got their nanny’s name wrong. I even documented how her contact information at the school and their doctor was years out of date-- that’s how rarely she contacted either of them. The courts may favor the mother and I will probably lose if I fight it, but there’s no way Sergey will let it go that far. Not with the amount of embarrassment I can dish out to him through her in a public custody hearing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen contemplated his old friend. “You do realize that leaves only the option of killing you to make the problem go away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Dima took another drink. “But I think I have some time before that. It would not look good for him to kill me over something comparatively trivial and the relationships I’ve established are what keep us out of trouble with the other bratva and government officials. Neither Vasily nor Igor are ready to take over my responsibilities yet, though the latter is certainly trying. In less than a year, Timofey comes of age and my opinion will not matter. He can be compelled to sign the consent forms himself or declared unfit to make his own decisions; Sergey will no doubt try, but I am already planning. Caution and timing are most important. If I make my move too early, I risk making myself seem unfit and Katya being granted full custody by default.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen met his friend’s gaze. There was something considering there. Dima was offering his old friend a lot of trust, obviously hoping for something in return. “Just ask,” he said, taking another drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima gave him a thin, tired smile. “If I fail to spirit him away in time, or if I’ve miscalculated and Sergey disposes of me before the moment is right, will you ensure he escapes? Please. I ask as a friend. You’ve heard him. His English is excellent and he can speak French well too. He will do well in most countries that will treat him well for what he is, he just needs someone to ensure he gets there and that no one finds him. I have already set up accounts for his needs, I can grant you custodial access--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t ask lightly. If you need to consider it, just--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a weary look. “Dima. Really. You’ve seen what my life has become because of Alex. You know I’m soft on kids these days. What’s one more? Spiriting him away is comparatively simple, unless Timofey is also a former super spy waging legal war on various foreign agencies.” Yassen downed the rest of his drink and exhaled lightly. “If you doubt I’m sincere, there’s a simple solution: don’t die and you won’t have to find out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima lit himself another cigarette. “Perhaps I should take your advice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d recommend it.” Yassen realized that he’d neglected his own cigarette, allowing it to turn to ash straight down to the filter. With a grimace, he set it on the side of his plate and glanced around the restaurant. Still empty, though he supposed the staff would be up to prepare the level for dinner service sooner or later. Their conversation had been well over an hour long. He was tempted to just accept that he wouldn’t be getting anything productive done with his day. He turned back to Dima. “This is why you fought so hard to get me on the international contract, isn’t it? So you would have someone who wasn’t loyal to Sergey to look after Lada.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima inclined his head. “Caught. I didn’t lie about wanting to know what became of you, though. That was a big part of it, other than my selfish desire to keep my damn teenager alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fear not. If I were to fail to help yours, there’s another damn teenager who would never let me hear the end of it.” Yassen accepted the proffered replacement cigarette, determined to actually smoke it this time. “He’s already on my case about referring to Lada by her proper pronouns when it’s just us. The British are unflinchingly considerate about these things even in private, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That tugged a grin from the man opposite him. “Why am I not surprised? I’ve talked your ear off with my sorrows long enough. How is he doing? Hopefully not causing too much trouble before you go to trial over that spy nonsense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow. “Better than I expected, it’s MI6 that has me annoyed. They’ve more or less gotten our exact address and will no doubt send people to try and get Alex to drop out of testifying, as kidnapping him would be too troublesome at the moment. I’m a little tempted to send him to school with an armed guard just to deter them. He’s certainly not pleased. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started getting high out of irritation alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is annoying.” Dima pursed his lips. “If you like, you can have him come here after school. It is between your apartment and Goldstone, yes? My manager will set him up with snacks and a quiet corner to study, with plenty of people watching to ensure no one bothers him. My children do the same occasionally, when their after school lessons are canceled and they don’t want to go home to fight amongst themselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen exhaled neatly. “That’s not a bad idea. I’d rather have him supervised than sitting at our apartment. It’s a rather dangerous thing, allowing him the luxury of being bored.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Chapter 40</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Another Happy Monday, everyone! I hope everyone is keeping warm and staying safe. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex straightened as he heard footsteps approaching, quickly flushing the toilet and hurrying out of his stall to wash his hands in order to maintain the fiction that he’d actually come to use the loo. Damn, he hadn’t had a chance to take his tincture yet. Frankly, it was the only place out of the range of the cameras where Alex could pull out his drops without being seen by the hundreds of other Goldstone Academy students. Not that it seemed to have done him many favors in keeping his habits secret from his friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d thought lunch would be the ideal time to take the tincture, but since so many other students were running back and forth during the hour, it made it less than convenient to try and find a quiet place to go unobserved. While part of him had resigned himself to being one of the druggie kids in the eyes of the school, he didn’t want to get in the habit of dosing himself in front of others in case somebody decided to be an asshole later in the school year. On the other hand, his free study hour in the library was turning out to be a bad choice for taking them too: Mr. Avilov was quickly losing his patience for Alex’s near ritualistic need to use the loo, having just come from lunch period, when he should have addressed the issue. Unless Alex felt up to faking a bladder problem (he wasn’t), he was just going to have to figure something out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, this was just the two hour range in which Alex’s dose at home wore down to the point that things got more difficult to deal with. Louder. Harsher. Difficult to focus on. Yassen said the drops were safer than the Xanax, so Alex had been leaning harder on them and taking half-doses of the other. He wasn’t sure it was an equal trade in efficacy, but it had made one of the stress lines in the man’s forehead ease a little when Alex agreed to try it. He really didn’t want it to return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should actually consider switching to some of the medications Werner suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someday. Not soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps paused as they rounded the corner into the bathroom. Misha nodded to Alex, dressed in a gym uniform, as he stepped up to a urinal and quickly went about his own business. Annoyed, Alex took his own sweet time washing his hands, pretending to be engrossed in being thorough around his nails. Couldn’t Misha just hurry up and leave? It was weird enough having to hang around while his physics lab partner took what seemed to be a needlessly long piss, but Alex still needed to take his drops before he went back to the library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why had he just stood there in the stall and not hurried with his own business when he’d arrived? Perhaps he’d had an absence seizure, but it couldn’t have lasted very long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grimaced at his reflection. Maybe he was turning into a space cadet. A burn out. It was inevitable, he supposed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Misha drifted over to the sinks, washing his own hands and glancing at Alex curiously. Running water echoed off the tile walls. “Do you need something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. His druggie reputation was earned, to be perfectly fair. He’d just have to find a way to avoid patterns. “Just don’t tell anyone, alright?” he grumbled, and pulled out the bottle. He knocked back a quick couple of drops-- the barest of minimums-- and before glancing at Misha, who was watching him in bemusement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Mr. Avilov demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turned around, tucking his bottle into his pocket in a smooth motion. “Just using the restroom, sir. Sorry, I lost track of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The librarian folded his arms. He was only in his late twenties, but the way he regarded his supervisory responsibilities over the eight or so students who used the study hour for their medical exemptions reminded Alex more of a crotchety old school marm. His flinty eyes didn’t even try to conceal their suspicion. “And what do you have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex paused, as though confused. His heart beat in his chest, thundering in his ears. What happened to the teachers not bothering him about it? Either Seamus had lied or Avilov was taking it upon himself to be even more exacting than the general teaching body. “Study hour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Just now. In your pocket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eye drops,” Alex said, heart sinking. It was the best lie he could think of, given the way he’d been holding it over his head. “Mine get dry sometimes. Medication side effect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Misha sidled up to them, snatching a paper towel from the metal dispenser and nodding politely to Avilov. “I saw him,” he said. Alex felt his fists clench-- he had been hoping his lab partner wouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>such a snitch</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Same eye drops my mother uses. Has the new catalogue come in yet, Mr. Avilov? Have they confirmed the sequel will be available?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Avilov seemed to soften just a pinch before jerking his head at Alex to get a move on. “Back to studying.” Turning back to Misha, he shook his head. “It is still delayed. Usually around the New Years, the inventory system changes--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex didn’t stick around to hear it, sparing only a quick glance and a grateful smile to Misha as he hurried away. The other boy gave him a long glance Alex couldn’t identify, but he could worry about that later. For now, he needed to try to catch up on his physics problems and hopefully stash his bottle somewhere deep in his bag where it wouldn’t be found.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen frowned at the screen of his phone before he silenced its vibration sharply and turned back to the client. His contractor in Spain could wait. It took him only half a second to mentally reorder the sounds he’d just heard while not paying attention and refocused quickly. “Mr. Nikuluv’s concerns mirror Mr. Kiriyev’s,” Yassen relayed quickly in Spanish. “It is not the nature of your casino that concerns them, Mr. Vazquez. It is the nature of the forms you provided them with. It is a priority that their investments and ownership remain as discreet as possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the planet, Mr. Vazquez’s translator nodded once to confirm Yassen’s translation was correct to his boss. Vazquez himself responded, seated at his desk in full view of the camera, with a polite nod to Sergey, Dima, Vasily, and Igor seated around their conference table in Moscow. “While we certainly wish to keep names as private as possible, the fact remains that recent changes to Panamanian law prohibits such an obfuscation. We cannot omit it from the paperwork entirely and expect to avoid the attention of the authorities.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Releasing the microphone, Yassen relayed the information swiftly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Igor frowned, leaning towards his uncle and keeping his voice low enough that the men on the other side of the screen could not hear it. Yassen was tempted to point out that they were muted, but opted not to waste his breath. “I told you this wasn’t the best direction moving forward. We should be keeping things in our own city, on our own soil. This feels like an unnecessary risk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s too much crossfire in Moscow,” Dima countered, on the other side of his father in law. “Stepping on the toes of our fellow bratvas only increases the odds that we are made weak by infighting. Besides, he did not say it is impossible. Be patient. He is opening the door to a proposed solution.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would consider that most likely,” Yassen said, turning his head enough that his lips could not be read via the camera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey frowned and adjusted his glasses. “Ask him then what he proposes we do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took less than a minute for Yassen to listen to the needlessly roundabout manner in which the businessman presented the idea. Even though it was professionally discouraged to summarize rather than directly translate as a general rule, the concept of presenting the information exactly as communicated set his teeth on edge. He could not bear the idea of rambling even on behalf of another. “In essence, he suggests that you provide a middle man. One who’s name and information is formally entered, who can then represent your will in any way you wish. The issue of routing the money through such a party would be ours, but he wishes to assure you that there will be no issues in feeding your money through the actual casino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Igor’s lips twisted in what neither committed to a scowl nor a smug smile. “I told you, Sergey, that we would arrive at something like this. This will get too complicated to be practical. It is one thing to trust our men here to follow orders, but to play international telephone as a permanent and critical fixture in our cash flow is another. Every adjustment will need to be relayed through a third party--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of our choosing,” Dima interjected. “I can think of four of our men off the top of my head that we can trust to act swiftly and with discretion. Ones with no arrest records or obvious ties to us on paper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey raised his fingers to silence them both and flicked a glance at Vasily. “Your thoughts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man gave a light shrug. He was only slightly past thirty and had features so average that somewhere a statistician was wetting themselves, but Yassen had immediately understood Dima’s assumptions that he would pick up his slack upon being introduced to the man: Vasily was a man of capability. Whatever was asked of him would be done, and if not, his reasoning explained. Not overly committed to any opinion, much less his own. The perfect mid-level underling. His mild brown eyes didn’t so much as flicker as he shrugged. “I could see it go either way, I think. It would depend on who is trusted with the responsibility more than anything else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey turned to Yassen. “We will need time to consider it. Thank Mr. Vazquez for his time and assure him we’ll be in touch shortly.” As soon as Yassen had done just that and ended the call, the head of the bratva shut his laptop computer and gestured for his assistant to take it. He stood. “I do not like this. We have no one currently installed in Panama that I trust with this much responsibility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima’s face stiffened only enough to slightly misalign the work of the surgeons. “It is less than you think,” he said levelly. “Besides, it should not be too difficult to install someone ourselves. Even if it takes a year, we still profit enough to make it worth our while in the long term.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will consider it,” Sergey said, in a tone that made Yassen doubt he’d even bothered doing so during the meeting itself. “Igor, we have another engagement.” He paused at the door. “And Gregorovich-- leave your phone off next time. It’s unprofessional to be so distracted in front of clients.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t allow his expression to tighten nor his fists to clench. Sergey was quite middle aged, in great shape physically, but the body could not entirely repel the test of time no matter one’s commitment. His neck would snap like a glow stick-- all that satisfying internal wet crunching paired with a neat and tidy exterior. It wasn’t meant to be; Scorpia would rather bomb Moscow than lose this client because Yassen couldn’t manage his temper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was still tempting. They both likely continued to breathe by the sheer fortune that they interacted only two or three times a week. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inclined his head. “My apologies for seeming rude, but I must be available to Shackall at all times, as was outlined in our contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergey’s eyes grew even colder, if such a thing were possible. They reminded Yassen faintly of dry-ice-- somehow cold and capable of burning at the same time. Contradicting the man even in private would have done him no favors, but Yassen had fulfilled enough contracts to know the danger of being too accommodating. Part of him suspected he’d catered to Cray just a hair too much and look where that had gotten him. “Do not forget you are also our representative. I do not wish to see it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understood,” Yassen responded as they left, trailed by their respective security teams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had understood; it just didn’t mean he wouldn’t answer his phone if Scorpia called him during another meeting. Understanding wasn’t a promise by any stretch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankly, he doubted there was anything he could do to avoid Sergey’s ire. Yassen certainly seemed to require no respect as the semi-disgraced assassin of a semi-disgraced terrorist organization. The longer the contract went on, the more Yassen became convinced that he’d been hired only as an opportunity to either cow or compromise Dima somehow. Sabotaging the contract killer might even offer some sort of situation where his son-in-law’s demotion or demise could be justified to those bratva underlings or government contacts still loyal to Dima specifically. The Scorpia terrorist’s utter lack of mistakes on the job was inconvenient, but not an actual problem to his friend’s father in law. Whatever he was planning to do would get done at some point, it seemed, despite Dima’s efforts to please and Yassen’s careful deliverance of the contract’s promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen would have to manage this carefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vasily glanced at Dima and stood, pushing in his chair as he did so. “Well, that was a productive use of my afternoon. Anyway, I’m going to review this month's bookkeeping before I leave for the night. Anything else you want handled while I’m at it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shook his head, not bothering to wait for the other man to be out of the room before beginning his grumbling. “There is being resistant to change and there is acting too rashly. Somehow, Sergey manages to accomplish both.” (Yassen caught a small grimace of agreement on Vasily’s face as the door shut behind him.) Dima yanked out his pack of cigarettes, hand digging sharply after it for his lighter. He couldn’t find it. After a few seconds of struggle, Yassen fished out his own and tossed it to him. He lit up and took a quick drag, jaw set. Glanced at Yassen. “What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My idea. Sergey. All of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced around pointedly. They were in Sergey and Igor’s territory, on their floor and monitored by security personnel that reported directly to them. He’d already confirmed that the room itself wasn’t bugged via the iPod-- which, since a lot of clandestine deals went on in here, made perfect sense in terms of not leaving incriminating records-- but that didn’t mean it was entirely safe to speak freely. “While my experience is based more on facilitating than implementing, I think your reasoning is sound. There is plenty of demand for money laundering among your allied bratvas which your current casino isn’t quite able to keep up with even at full capacity. Offering more methods to accomplish it would go a long way towards insulating your interests from their territorial whims. Forging alliances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Dima stabbed the air with his smoking cigarette, seemingly forgetting about it’s actual purpose. “And the rest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took in a slow inhale and stretched out his back, shrugging. Dr. Wood’s willingness to listen to him complain for a few hours had done much to endear the woman to him, as much as that were possible; he suspected doing the same would work with Dima. “Why don’t we talk over drinks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Chapter 41</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I’m so bored,” Alex muttered, staring at his literature homework from his perch. The sounds of silverware rattling and the low hum of chatter from the other diners did him no favors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The restaurant had been exactly where Yassen said it would be, though Alex didn’t recognize much more than the name emblazoned on the front facade when he arrived. He’d slowed as he approached in on the street, his breath pluming in icy condensation in front of him and his hands carefully tucked in his pockets. While he wasn’t precisely thrilled that Yassen had essentially arranged babysitting for him, he had to admit it was more appealing than going back to their empty, dark apartment. Yassen had said he’d be working late due to his and Dima’s lunch running long yesterday (or something like that) and to not expect him until the hour Alex usually went to bed. Besides, Alex wasn’t in the mood to heat up some of the frozen dinners Yassen had shoved in the freezer and he’d been distinctly promised snacks, so he might as well go along with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A handsome blonde man in a slim fitting gray suit sans the jacket had glanced up from the host’s counter as Alex stepped into the threshold. “Alex, yes?” he asked. The teenager couldn’t help but be impressed-- he didn't have so much a hair out of place nor a speck of dust on his suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinked. “That’s right. How did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My boss, Dimitry Nikulov, showed me picture yesterday,” the man explained. He finished scribbling a note on the pad by the phone and snapped his fingers at another employee to come take his place at the front. “Said you might stop by soon. Come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trailing after the man, Alex had glanced around a bit curiously. He rather liked the look of this bar, though it was a bit different than Dima’s other one at the airport. Lots of exposed wooden beams, but with more industrial light fixtures and plants by all the windows. Much more comfortable than all that dark glass and water features. The host led him deeper into the restaurant, past the dining room tables and chairs into the center of the building where the actual bartop was. Tucked beside the gleaming rows of bottles and along the interior wall closest to the entrance to the kitchen, a handful of dark leather booths had been arranged to give smaller parties a more cozy atmosphere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man in the suit snatched a little card off the smallest table in the corner and gestured for Alex to sit. “My name is Maxim. I will be here most days. For now, our bartender, Daniil, will look after you and get you whatever you need. Sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded. “Yes, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without another word, Maxim strode off, likely to finish up whatever he’d been doing at the front. He snapped something at a passing waitress, who immediately straightened whatever it was she was carrying. Bit of a sharp personality, Alex supposed. The man didn’t seem to necessarily be rude, just finicky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Identifiable by the square name tag pinned to his lapel, Daniil wandered over just as Alex was deciding which portions of his reading work were safe to ignore. He had neatly trimmed brown hair, swept back and carefully styled in place. Maybe twenty five, dressed all in crisp black. Everyone working here seemed to be fairly good looking and well groomed; Alex was almost positive that had more to do with Maxim than Dima, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil set a bowl of pretzels and a glass of Coke on the table beside him. “Here. This should get you started. Let me know if you work up an appetite for something more filling, though. I’ll grab you a menu and we can find something you’ll like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Alex gave the guy a considering look. “Can I ask you a question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s one, but I’ll give you another for free.” Daniil grinned and crossed his arms. His English reminded Alex a bit of Briar’s so he must have learned it somewhere in the western half of the states. Texas, maybe. He also had the habit of easy, sociable smiling that most Russians Alex had met seemed to lack. “Go on. Shoot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What has everyone been told about me?” Alex glanced around the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil nodded. “Well, we all know your name and what you look like. Mr. Nikulov says you’ll be studying here, the same as his kids do every so often, and that we’re supposed to make sure you’re happy, fed, and that strangers don’t bother you. Do strangers often bother you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Interesting. So they had specific orders, but not a lot of context. Made sense, when Alex thought about it. “What else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a dry look. “You’ve got other orders about me. Come on. I won’t tattle or try to cause trouble for you. I’m just curious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil gave him a crooked grin, as though a little rankled that this kid was putting him on but not quite certain he should be. He nodded slowly, giving Alex a somewhat shrewd look. “If you ask, there are certain things we can give you and certain things we can’t,” he allowed, after a careful moment of thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean drugs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More or less.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes and snorted. “This really is a proper mobster daycare, isn’t it? All right. I’ll bite. What’s on the list?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure if I should tell you,” Daniil responded slowly, glancing around as though considering summoning Maxim for confirmation. Probably worried about getting in trouble or wondering what the line was between indulging a kid’s unfortunate drug habit and actively encouraging it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was confident he could help his new friend find that line. In fact, Alex would say he excelled at testing boundaries. He didn’t bother concealing the slightly mischievous glint in his eye. “How about I loudly request each and every drug I can think of, at full volume, and you just say yes or no?” He inhaled sharply, as though preparing to do just that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil scoffed and dropped onto the seat across from Alex in his booth, obviously a little uneasy but amused nonetheless. “Hush now. You just want to see how far you can push things, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a bad drug dealer if your customer has to push your drugs on themselves,” Alex informed him, helping himself to a handful of small pretzels. “I’d work on that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or I’m the best. Think about it. Anyway, I’m not a drug dealer, I’m a bartender.” Daniil waved a hand in acknowledgement as Alex’s pointed look. “Who can get you drugs, yes. I wouldn’t say it’s most of what I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re a hobbyist drug dealer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zho-pa,” Daniil groaned, laughing a little. “You are quite the handful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that mean?” Alex asked, sipping his Coke. “I’ve been called that a few times before, but no one’s explained it. I gather from context that it’s rude enough that I shouldn’t ask my Russian instructor for the exact definition so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil snorted. “I wouldn’t recommend it, no. I think it technically translates to arse, but it’s used a lot more playfully. Like when Americans call their kids “little shits”. It’s not always an insult, depending on how you say it. Somehow I’m not surprised you’ve heard it a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted. So that’s what Yassen had called him once or twice on the road. He filed that information away. There had to be a way to milk that, somehow. He stirred his fizzy drink with a straw. “So what’s on the list?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much. A little vodka, but not enough to get you drunk. As much cannabis as you want, full stop. No limits, any form, you lucky boy. No opiates, unless it’s an emergency. Sparing amounts of party drugs but those require permission from Dima.” Daniil gave him a considering look. “Oh, and anyone caught giving you heroin will be murdered by a very scary assassin. That was carefully stressed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His Coke burned as it filled his nasal cavities and sinuses. He hacked up half of it, taking the cloth napkin Daniil thrust at him in startelement before the man stood and started gently pounding his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” Daniil asked, obviously uneasy as Alex struggled to suck in air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like the protein milkshakes all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brat surrendered to his laughter again, as soon as he could draw in the oxygen required to do so. He pulled the napkin away from his face with a sharp inhale.  “I’m fine, I’m fine. Wrong pipe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was. Just. So. Yassen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You almost gave me a heart attack,” Daniil told him, lips thinning as he glanced back at the bar. There was another woman doing something with the register behind it, who’d only stopped once or twice to help the occasional customer. Obviously, he should be getting back to work, though seeing to Alex was obviously of nebulously higher priority.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex managed to still himself and drag in a couple steady breaths. “Can I get your advice on something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil put his hand on his hip and gave Alex a skeptical glance. “I’m beginning to think I should not. Go on. Ask anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to find a way to take my weed without getting caught at school.” Alex dug into his backpack and pulled out his little bottle to show the bartender. “I have to take it at a certain time every day, but if I get caught with it, it will only cause trouble for my mum. Plus, I don’t want the bottle confiscated since it’s the only one I have and I’d have to wait to get more. I was thinking of asking for more edible gummies since I’ve taken them before, but they are pretty obviously packaged and they have a really distinctive smell. At least, I can smell it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil pursed his lips. “What way worked best for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smoking it? Eating it? These little drops? There are lots of choices.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Alex glanced at the bottle consideringly. Turned it slowly in his hands. “I like how fast these work, but I feel like the edibles did a better job. They were more potent. I’ve been using it for some time now so I really need it to be potent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy, then. I can get you some decent grade cannabutter and you can pick whichever kind of food you want to hide it in. With the least smell or taste, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean like pot brownies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Or anything else that uses butter. Cookies. Cakes. Popcorn. Pasta. Tea. Whatever is the least suspicious to have on you, if that’s what’s important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex perked up. It wasn’t a bad idea. Food certainly wasn’t allowed in the library, but if he was careful enough with what he chose, he could have his dose at the lunch table with his friends. He’d still have to disappear to some less busy blind spot to take his oxy and halved xanax, but that was a lot easier and a lot less stressful than his drops anyway. Worse case scenario, he had to ditch the handful of loose pills in his pocket or swallow them quickly and swear they were aspirin, whereas with the tincture, if he got caught-- or almost caught-- he would have to surrender the entire bottle. If he turned a week’s weed doses into food, even if he had to toss it to evade detection, it wouldn’t be more than one day’s worth because he could leave the rest at the flat. “Is it hard to bake into things?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil twisted his lips, obviously on the fence about something. “Yes and no. You have to be a little careful with the preparation in order not to mess with the THC. It’s not that hard, but it will make the area around it smell strongly if you are not careful. How good are you at cooking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can make ramen noodles and eggs. Well, runny eggs,” Alex admitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, and toasties. And he could follow directions on a box... for the most part. Jack’s ten minute meals hadn’t been terribly skill-heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil patted him on the shoulder. “I tell you this. How about you get busy with your schoolwork and I will make you some brownies to try. We make them for the restaurant already, so I’ll just have the kitchen make a special, separate batch for you with the cannabis added. One time only.” He held up one finger to emphasize his point. Alex found it a little condescending, but didn’t complain. “Just promise me you won’t try them until the weekend comes. They can be much stronger than you expect. Eat little pieces first--maybe a quarter of a brownie. Actually, do an eighth first and work your way up. If you like them, I will give you recipes and instructions next time, but you must study hard while they bake tonight. Deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deal.” Alex took another handful of pretzels. “Thanks for helping me. I don’t know all this stuff on my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re just lucky I majored in weed in college,” Daniil informed him with a sigh. “Okay, technically business administration, but mostly weed. Just don’t go overboard. I don’t want the trouble or your mum to worry.” As if to belay the sternness in his voice, he ruffled Alex’s hair before he strode off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he does that enough anyway,” Alex muttered, turning back to his reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Chapter 42</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! </p><p>If anyone is interested in seeing some Mammals art, check out the amazing Noahilon's on her tumblr https://covescarf.tumblr.com/post/640045556159430657/. Highly recommended. ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben had to give whoever had picked their two-bedroom flat credit-- it was damn near perfect in terms of location. Discreetly nestled in the downtown area, the building itself was almost invisible. Identical, flat older looking buildings with no interesting features surrounded it, though most had been tastefully renovated on the inside. They were on the sixth floor, and two streets over from where Alex and Gregorovitch were supposedly residing. Due to the shorter building beside theirs, they had a fairly unobstructed view of the large windows on the west side of the terrorist’s apartment, with a semi decent line of sight to their living room. Ben frowned. Another set of shuttered windows were tucked off in the corner of the building, much smaller than the others. A bedroom or bathroom, perhaps? MI6 didn’t have an official layout of the place, though a similar unit’s floor plans had been provided as a starting reference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody home. Not that it was urgent they spot him today. They had weeks, theoretically. The spy was just anxious to get a move on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben pushed up his sunglasses. They were a Smithers original-- thicker than what one would expect by only a quarter of an inch and with a slightly unusual sheen, they had night vision capabilities and one of the best digital zoom functions he’d ever seen, much less in something so small and unobtrusive. An improvement on a previous version concealed in ski goggles. It had been given to him by the MI6 tech assigned to the case, as well as with a handful of other discrete items; button-hole cameras, a document scanner disguised as a pen, a set of hearing amplifiers disguised as small waterbottles.  Nothing terribly extensive or particularly high-tech, likely because their mission didn’t require complicated surveillance or because their odds of discovery were reasonable. Anything else could be requested as needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, Wolf tapped his shoulder until Ben turned around and scowled. “There’s only two bedrooms and one sofa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brilliant. He can count,” Eagle muttered from across the room. He’d taken to reclining in one of the chairs in front of the television. It was on quietly, though it didn’t seem to draw his attention more than passingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which means one of us is stuck sleeping on the floor,” Wolf clarified, favoring Eagle with only an unphased glance. “And I’ll tell you right now, it’s not going to be me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake shrugged as he stepped into the room from the kitchen, glancing at his phone and then back up at Wolf with snort. “You didn’t claim anything else fast enough. Not our fault your plane landed after ours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle cackled. “Unless you want to share my bed. I have to warn you, though: I’m a cuddler.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben rolled his eyes and gestured to a closet off the front door. “There’s an air mattress in there. I’ll flip a coin for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf grimaced. “I don’t see why we all had to fly separately. We’re not even using false names. So far as I understand it, we don’t seem terribly secret.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “Not exactly, no. It’s more about avoiding undue attention. Any one of us visiting Moscow doesn’t look suspicious. Not every member of the military is in their databases to begin with, obviously but even if they know that we’re SAS, it’s not illegal to be a tourist. So long as we didn’t all travel together, it shouldn’t raise any immediate flags in their systems. If anyone does notice we’ve all gathered together now, we’re all feasibly just buddies on holiday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we just assume they won’t put it together the entire time we’re here?” Eagle asked. “We’re begging to get arrested by the SVR like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ben crossed his arms, wincing as he stretched out his back. “What we’re doing isn’t exactly illegal, we just don’t want the Russians interfering before we get anything done. So long as we’re not openly on a mission or proveably MI6, it’s hard to justify treating us like criminals or spies even if we violate some privacy laws.” Ben flicked down his sunglasses, glancing back up at the apartment through the balcony window. He’d have to switch to watching the street soon. “Besides, if we do find evidence that Alex is in danger, our findings will go before a judge. False names providing said evidence supports a problematic narrative, which can possibly invalidate whatever we find. MI6 might be a spy agency, but their evidence in their defense is expected to be above board.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle’s eyes narrowed. “Our names aren’t going to support a spy narrative so much as using button cam video evidence will. Won’t it be obvious that we came outfitted for a recon mission?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s easier to explain away,” Ben said, pushing his glasses back up with a sigh. “We can say that we saw signs of abuse first and then got equipment to document it. At any rate, that’s why we’re supposed to use our cell phones if possible. Any evidence is better than nothing, but again, it’s important that it appear unconnected to the agency.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf sorted. “That’s why we’re supposed to pretend you never left the SAS.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben nodded. He’d only been gone less than a year and his name wasn’t well known to other agencies despite his success record. It had been a simple matter for Jones to alter his records to say that he’d been granted a special sabbatical for personal reasons but remained enlisted. “Just keep our story straight and we should avoid most trouble. The government will become aware of us at some point, there’s no doubt about it. Odds are that they’ll tolerate us for the sake of appearing non-hostile during proceedings, at least unless we do something they can prove isn’t holiday related.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of him knew he should be more direct with his team mates. Being here was a risk for all of them-- he hadn’t left the unit so long ago that he couldn’t remember the frustration when bureaucratic types withheld information for their own agendas when your life was on the line. Even so, telling them about Smithers would be a disaster. Not only did he not entirely understand the situation, technically, it was safer if they weren’t involved: only he would likely end up in prison for the rest of his life if caught. Well, assuming he wasn’t sentenced to death. Beyond his nebulous alliance with Smithers, Ben didn’t want to withhold anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Forming suspicions were hard to communicate, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hence the no-weapons thing,” Eagle grumbled, crossing his legs out in front of him on the coffee table. “Or why we didn’t get much equipment. Button cams won’t go very far. What is this, the Cold War?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben gave him an apologetic look. “A lot of the surveillance stuff would be pretty useless anyway, since you all lack the training to use it properly, and would just look bad if we get caught. That’s why I’m holding onto the bulk of the covert stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just strange,” Snake said, still leaning against the doorframe that led into the kitchen. He crossed his arms and glanced out the window, at the fading light. “This mission that’s not really a mission. Just hang out and stalk a kid. Chat him up when we can. Try not to get arrested. Avoid being killed by that lunatic who took him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does anyone else feel like we should unofficially rename this mission Unmarked White Van?” Eagle asked. “Because it still feels about that dodgy. The first words out of our mouths to the kid might as well be ‘would you like some free candy?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shot the man a look, but couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. Frankly, they would be lucky not to come across as pedophiles. “The trick is to avoid being problematic for just long enough that we get just one solid piece of evidence to send back, even if we’re under the SVR’s close observation by that point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake sighed. “If only we knew how long. We could be here for months. Just… sitting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf grimaced, staring out at their tiny, snow covered balcony. The apartment had been unoccupied for long enough that the snow had iced over and gotten crunchy. “I really wish the brat had broken out of prison in the Spring. Or at least fled to the Greek Islands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake punched him lightly on the arm. “You should have made a formal request. So I just took a look at the fridge-- nothing. I guess we’re eating out tonight. Might be a good chance to get to know the area.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or we order in,” Eagle countered, glancing at the heavily laden coat rack where their winter coats dripped steadily with melted snow. “That would be my preference.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben gave him a look. “Technically, you and Snake should be studying your language books. Learn enough Russian to order food anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle snorted. “Do we even know what delivers here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s some menus in the kitchen. I take it the landlord knows that most people who rent a holiday place like this probably don’t want to do their own cooking,” Wolf said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake dug out his language manual from the bag he’d tossed by the front door. “Fine, but I vote Fox has to phone it in and deal with the driver. Eagle and I have to study.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex kicked open the thick door to their flat, tray wobbling momentarily as he struggled to balance it in his arms and finish dealing with the keypad. Succeeding only by a thin margin, he hurried in and shut the door behind himself. Dropping the pan swiftly on the counter, he shed every other item off him like a butterfly abandoning its cocoon en route to his bedroom-- his gloves bounced off the countertop a second later, his winter jacket was tossed somewhere on the floor, his backpack his the hardwood in the hallway, his sports coat nearly making it to his bedroom door but not quite, and his shoes scattering across the threshold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made for quite the untidy mess, but Alex was beyond caring. It was getting late in the afternoon and he was cold and tired. As tempted as he was to crawl into his sleep clothes and wrap himself in every blanket he could find, he also realized that his stomach was growling. He’d been too busy with schoolwork at the restaurant to take Daniil up on ordering from the menu and those pretzels hadn’t exactly filled him up. Staying home meant his options were to either heat up something frozen or wait for Yassen to arrive so he could badger him into buying him something more appetizing. Alex didn’t trust his Russian enough to phone it in himself, so that meant he there was a decent chance he’d have to go out himself and point awkwardly at a takeaway menu if the man was working extra late. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Going out it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He yanked on his favorite non-uniform clothes with little enthusiasm. Why was it so damn cold all the time? It couldn’t just be him, regardless of what Yassen said. Listening to the contract killer, you’d think Alex was a short-haired chihuahua, shivering at the mere mention of a draft. His room was just cold, damn it. Colder than the others, no matter what the readout actually said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’d just left the window cracked or something. That would be vidicating. Alex flicked open the blinds to check. No luck; it was sealed and putting his hands near the seam didn’t offer any cold spots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing the tassel, Alex very nearly shut his blinds before he noticed something. A slight flicker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He froze, brows furrowing. It had been fast-- too fast for Alex to identify-- but it stuck with him no matter how much he tried to convince himself it was nothing. It wasn’t even a building beside theirs; there was no way he could have clearly seen whatever it was. It was dark. Paranoia was nothing new and he should know better by now than to let it get to him. The late hour and waning medication was probably just making him needlessly anxious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chewed on his bottom lip. It could be anything, a million innocuous things. A windchime catching the light. The flicker of a telly. A reflection in a mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That really didn’t stop him from thinking it was the glare from a camera lense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What did it matter? Alex shut the blinds with a snap. It probably wasn’t that, but even if it was, who was to say they were watching him out of the hundreds of other people living in this building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s warning about MI6 sending a team soon made him pretty sure it wasn’t, though. Alex scowled at his carpet and folded his arms. He might still be wrong-- the team might not even be here yet or that might not be the correct apartment. Pulling out his iPhone, he pointed it in the right direction and gave it a go: no luck. Too far out of range.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunger forgotten, Alex glanced up at the clock. Almost half past seven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a groan, Alex gathered up his shoes and tugged them back on his feet. Where did his gloves go? Truth be told, he knew he was doing a stupid thing by going to check it out. Still. Yassen said the surveillance would likely be harmless, if annoying, so it wasn’t like there was a real threat if he was caught by them. Besides, there was an excellent chance that he was wrong and was letting his brain get him all panicked over nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Investigating alone was certainly idiotic, though: even if he thought the chance they’d snatch him was low, Yassen would be downright livid if he knew Alex hadn’t even texted to let him know what he was doing. That was just a risk Alex would have to take. A quick look would either prove that Alex had nothing to worry about and he could spend his evening relaxing, or, it would reveal the location of their new watchers and whatever else Alex could learn. He’d take precautions and stay away from the actual apartment itself and just get close enough that his iPod could confirm or deny his suspicions. Simple. If it was nothing, Alex didn't have to mention it to the man and if it was something, hopefully whatever information he gathered would be enough to buy himself a little leeway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d make it fast, he promised himself. Yassen would never even have to know he’d gone out.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Chapter 43</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen pushed open the door to the flat, a little surprised to see the living room empty and the television quiet. Perhaps Alex was still at the restaurant. The boy had given him that cross don’t-treat-me-like-a-baby look when the assassin had told him about Dima’s offer and his preference that Alex spend his afternoons doing his homework there. Yassen had rather expected the boy would put in only a cursory appearance and head immediately home, but perhaps it had gone better than planned and Alex had ended up liking the place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whirlwind of untidiness had blown through the kitchen and hallway. Alex’s possessions were strewn about in almost chronological order of layers. In a former era of his life, the assassin would have gone on high alert and swiftly examined it for signs of a struggle, but after a mere matter of months stuck living with a teenager, it just inspired annoyance. Around dinner time, Alex’s mild fastidiousness seemed to go offline for the night. Yassen half considered picking the various articles of clothing up himself, but dismissed the idea. Wasn’t Alex supposed to be the one hung up on cleaning? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shiny silver takeaway tray resting on the counter drew his attention. He pushed back the foil cover and chuckled to himself: a full pan of brownies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course Alex had sweet talked his way into a month’s worth of dessert. Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be worse, he supposed, glancing in the fridge to confirm it’s relative emptiness. Naturally, the boy wouldn’t have wheedled his way into anything remotely healthy. At least Alex was guaranteed to put on at least a little weight eating like this. It might not be good for his health long term, but Yassen was beginning to learn the futility of trying to solve Alex’s problems more than a few months in advance. They evolved so quickly and unpredictably that Yassen was half convinced it was karmic spite driving them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was better to just accept the chaos and adapt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Struck by a thought, he returned to the brownie tray to examine it more closely. Perhaps Alex’s sweet tooth could once again be turned in Yassen’s favor. Was it possible to sneak protein shakes into baked goods? Yassen stared down at the neat little squares consideringly. It had been a long time since his Scorpia cooking lessons, but he remembered the basics. Maybe substitute some of the flour with a whey protein instead? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It called for more research. Or maybe he could foist the extra work on one of Dima’s employees. Thanks to that particular facet of nepotism, Yassen wouldn’t even have to bribe anyone to sneak vitamins into the boy’s atrocious diet. At least the strawberry milkshake fixation had abated, though Yassen suspected that had more to do with the lack of available options: Moscow wasn’t exactly known for it’s milkshakes. The last few weeks had presented more challenges than expected and spiking the brat’s food had drifted to the back burner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shut the foil lid on top of the brownies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paused. Peeled it back up and stole the biggest one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The taste of chocolate was gratifying on it’s own-- he hadn’t realized until now that he’d actually worked up quite an appetite-- but the petty spite of leaving a large, obvious missing square was its own special treat. This would teach the brat a lesson about stealing food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At any rate, real food was still on the agenda tonight. Munching on the little bar, Yassen strode to Alex’s bedroom and glanced through the open door. Empty. A new thought occurred to him. He returned to the kitchen and yanked open the freezer. As suspected: they were out of ice cream. No doubt the boy had run to the corner market down the street for another pint, probably to enjoy his brownies a la mode. If Yassen braced himself for the argument and caught him coming in, he might even succeed in persuading Alex to eat proper food before starting in on his sugar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes passed with no sign of the brat. A flicker of doubt pooled in his stomach. While it may be impractical for a number of reasons to confine Alex to only designated areas in Moscow, it would certainly be the better security move to restrict his movements. Easier to confirm his safety and location. It was probably nothing, but with Alex’s luck... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fished his phone out of his pocket. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where are you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s response was reassuringly immediate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At the store.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen relaxed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hurry up. I want to eat dinner sometime before midnight.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m at Laszlo’s so I’m going to be a bit. Just pick me something up. You don’t have to wait.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned an active scowl. What was Alex doing that far away? There were plenty of small shops and markets between them. Laszlo’s was in an entirely different neighborhood-- it had just been the most convenient thing on their way back from the therapist’s office that one night. Now that he thought about it, it was higher end and thus carried a lot more international and artisanal brands, including that strawberry ice cream he’d liked so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose. As much as he wanted to encourage Alex’s independence, he’d also thought he’d impressed upon the boy the need to stay close and not go far alone. To not give much opportunity for their soon-to-be-watchers to approach him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was probably fine, but he’d definitely have to revisit the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing his coat off the peg, Yassen threw it on and checked his pocket to make sure he had his keys. It would probably just be faster if he met Alex at the store and went directly to food from there. Odds were the boy had bought too many snacks to carry by himself anyway. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be right there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The frigid winter air bit his face as Alex carefully stepped onto the street, shoes crunching against the dusting of pavement salt recently distributed liberally to combat the latest accumulation of sleet. Glancing at the apartment building in question, now largely obscured by the almost identical one in front of it, he struggled to make out any hint of the glare he’d seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grimaced and kept walking, burying his hands in his coat pockets as he just realized he’d forgotten to grab his gloves on the way out. He was probably just being crazy. Well, in the normal way, he supposed; it had been two days since his last hallucination and even then he’d been able to ignore the crocodiles wandering the floor of his French class. His panic attacks weren’t nearly as bad anymore either, though they hadn’t lost their frequency. Hopefully that meant the A216 had run its course and now he was back to his old problem of Alex’s brain simply refusing to believe things were fine. That danger lurked around every corner. That MI6 or Scorpia were out to get him and slowly drawing closer the more he relaxed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, he was working hard to remind himself of the reality of the situation. Scorpia had been negotiated with. MI6’s hands were tied. Even if he was correct about his guess of their watchers’ arrival, there wasn’t likely to be any danger in it for now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, leaving his nice, heavily surveilled apartment was essentially presenting them with a generous kidnapping opportunity, sans only a shiny red bow perched atop his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was such an idiot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was nearly enough to make him turn around, but not quite. In all likelihood, Alex reminded himself, he had just seen the flash of a telly or the power light of someone’s xbox or something utterly benign. Regardless, he refused to live in paranoid fear, especially when it lasted for hours and had no basis in reality. Plenty of real demons haunted him, thank you very much, and he wasn’t about to rewrite his life for the sake of those his brain just fucking made up over a trick of the light. If he had to go through the motions of proving to his stupid anxiety that everything was fine a million times over, he would, even if it was just in the vain hope that doing so meant he wouldn’t be beholden to it for the rest of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>However long that would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex slowed as he approached the apartment entrance, careful to avoid the majority of the light of the streetlamps as he studied the step. It seemed quite a bit more run down than he’d expect in this area of Moscow, though Yassen had explained that little trick to him before. A lot of apartments favored looking a little shoddy on the outside to deter thieves, while the nicer complexes cared more about appearances; a nice shiny one that displayed obvious wealth (such as theirs) drew the attention of thieves while the other buildings in the vicinity seemed like less ripe pickings in comparison. At any rate, it didn’t matter in Alex’s case; the door required either a code or a resident to buzz their guests in to the entrance. Not only that, but a small black security camera perched above the entryway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Alex pulled his hood up and settled in to wait, pretending to be engrossed in texting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took ten minutes before a middle-aged man carrying a few plastic shopping bags approached the door and pressed a random number after a good deal of shifting. With a sharp crackle, the intercom engaged and after a short conversation a loud buzz sounded and the door unlocked. The man paused, struggling to shift his groceries as he tugged on the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’d do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rushed forward to hold it open for him, nodding. “Let me, grandpa,” he said, in his limited Russian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man gave him a dirty look but followed it with a curt thanks. Alex wasn’t strictly surprised-- the man technically wasn’t old enough to be called grandpa nor be shown the consideration to elders he’d learned was more carefully observed here than in other places. It was only a small risk. He’d called him old, but he hadn’t been disrespectful, so beyond that, the interaction was over and Alex was in without looking significantly suspicious. The man grumpily strode ahead to the elevator so Alex opted for the stairs on the other end of the building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallways of the complex were quite narrow and somewhat poorly lit, with small functional stairwells that could only maybe allow for two people to pass at the same time. Alex scrunched up his nose in thought, suddenly glad Yassen had coaxed him into judo over the last few days. His cardio was certainly being challenged for the first real time since his hip injury. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just as well, he supposed, pausing to pant for a few seconds and tugging open his now sweltering jacket. The window he’d spotted had at least been ten stories up. Part of him could hardly believe other intelligence agents were as paranoid as Yassen about elevators, leaving Alex relatively unlikely to bump into them if he stuck to the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he wanted to stand around and find out if he was wrong. Grimacing, he straightened up and set to climbing again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached what the thought to be about the right level and stode down the hallway, counting doors and glancing out the stairwell windows to ensure his mental map was lining up correctly with the world outside. After three or four doors, he pulled out his iPod and activated the audio surveillance, walking as though he knew precisely where he was going without hurry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flickers of sound reached him as he tucked one earbud in. Television program with a squealing car chase, a baby crying, a woman speaking Russian to it in a low soothing voice. Plates rattling and scraping across tables. A man’s snoring. Nothing suspicious. He did a second sweep with infrared on the apartments that offered no sound, but that turned up nothing. Just a lot of occupants out for the evening or flats waiting for new tenants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next floor up didn’t fare much better. A couple bickered quietly, someone hammered something into a wall. One flat was listening to heavy metal, much to the ire of their neighbors based on the fists pounding against the adjoining wall. The music lowered in volume only fractionally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. Just one more floor, he assured himself. One more floor and the heights couldn’t possibly line up with where he’d seen the glare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brain would just have to be satisfied with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little silver iPod diligently gathered the vibrations as he passed. A keyboard clattered in the apartment to his immediate right. He nearly switched to infrared to confirm, on the fence if any agents would be reporting back so soon, when a voice close to it started complaining to “Ma” as a door opened. The next apartment was silent, but offered no heat signatures either. Loud panting and moaning greeted his ears as he pointed at the next-- Alex’s steps screeched to a stop as he swiveled the device sharply away from the figures inside. Blushing to the roots of his hair, Alex turned off the infrared function and picked up his pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two apartments from the end of the hall, Alex felt his chest begin to ease. Nothing so far, because there was just nothing to find. It was just a passing bout of paranoia. Perhaps he’d have those now, like the mood swings. Then again, those weren’t as bad lately either. It wasn’t ideal, but he could live with it. He’d tell Yassen about it when he got home and maybe he could help him come up with a better way to--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cyrillic was designed by a drunk calligrapher who’d only ever heard the latin alphabet described,” Snake complained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex froze dead in his tracks. No. Out of everyone MI6 could have possibly--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle huffed. “Are you sure we have to learn this? I vote we go rogue on the mission parameters. Wolf and Fox can keep an eye out for the kid and do all of the evidence gathering, while Snake and I go see the sights. We’ll make the whole team look like obvious tourists for the sake of cover, and when you guys see Cub, you give us a call and we’ll come chat him up. Problem solved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll want to at least be able to read the alphabet to navigate the streets,” Fox pointed out dryly. “Not that that is the most obvious or only flaw in your plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s phone vibrated suddenly. He glanced down at it, spotting the text from Yassen. Shit. He didn’t have time for this right now--especially not when Yassen realized Alex had directly ignored his warnings to be alone near the team. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation about just who it was promised to be equally un-fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Firing off a quick excuse to buy himself some time without making the man actively worry, Alex tried to refocus on the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake groaned. A book shut sharply a second later. “Yet I don’t hate it. If we’re stuck in Moscow for the foreseeable future on a weird barely-a-mission, we might as well get a good look at the place. Learn the lay of the land.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As nice as that would be, we need to prioritize our goals,” Ben said, voice growing slightly louder as he stepped near them. “And those don’t include being paid to wander the Red Square.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle heaved a massive sigh, before his tone brightened. “No, I’ve got it now. You come along to translate for us. Wolf calls us when he’s spotted Alex and then-- wait for it-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> we talk him into going to all the cool places in the city with us. This way, we’re not technically disregarding the mission. I mean, if we’re supposed to basically stalk him and butter him up anyway, who’s to say he doesn’t want to see the sights himself? Our new goal should be showing him a fun time. Keep him out and about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzed again. Fuck. Yassen was sitting at the flat, waiting around for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip. He wasn’t sure how long he should sit here, but he was getting good information that Yassen would surely appreciate. Well, after he was done being cross with him. However, if he told the truth now, there was no guarantee Yassen wouldn’t get himself involved immediately-- something Alex didn’t necessarily want to contemplate. K-unit might be pricks, but they were pricks Alex knew, and he didn’t want them shot because Yassen’s level of ‘mild caution’ was what most people considered ‘extremely proactive’. Once he could explain it to the man properly, it’d probably be fine but he didn’t really understand the whole situation yet. If Yassen wanted food, it was probably for the better if he just left to get some alone, buying Alex time to sort this out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He texted back an excuse as fast as his fingers could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While keeping him out and away from Gregorovitch might aid us in persuading him to leave the country willingly,” Ben pointed out. “It could just as easily backfire. We don’t want to spook a known killer. Even if he doesn’t feel threatened by us, if we’re a big enough nuisance, he might just put pressure on the SVR to force us to leave. Or he might keep Alex inside the flat. Remember, we don’t want either of them out of sight. Alex running around all day gives us a chance to document any signs of abuse, while Gregorovich feeling unthreatened means he might slip up and do something we can document to prove he’s unfit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not advocating being a nuisance,” Eagle insisted. “I’m advocating for very discretely taking Alex out on day trips. It’ll be good for him. Get some fresh air in his lungs. Learn the history. Keep him out of the man’s hair. Give us a proper vacation. Everyone wins.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s phone vibrated again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a sharp beep and a digital crackle. “Delivery for Ben Daniels,” a voice said in Russian. “Come to the entrance, please. We don’t deliver past the fifth floor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I vote that since the food is in Fox’s name, he’s the one who has to fetch it,” Wolf said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seconded,” Snake said quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agreed all around,” Eagle added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Ben sighed, before the sound of rustling-- his jacket, probably. “Just don’t come up with any more bright ideas while I’m gone. Can you hand me the--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shoved his iPod into his pocket with a curse, just as the doorknob beside him began to turn. There was only a split second to evaluate his options. Their apartment was right next to the elevator: the obvious choice to retrieve their takeaway. That left the stairs as the only discreet way to leave-- clear across the hallway, four apartment doors away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d just have to make it somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sprinted, knowing damn well his trainers weren’t exactly the quietest option available. His heart pounded in his chest, his lungs burning with the sudden burst of cardio so soon after the stairs. It didn’t matter-- he couldn’t let Ben see him! Yassen was still waiting at the apartment for him. Surely the man would lose patience soon and call him, which could be disastrous if Alex was stuck talking his way out of the apartment with Ben. Plus, Alex certainly didn’t want to talk to any of K-Unit without discussing things with Yassen first. If he was caught outside their flat now, that would beg the question of how he found them before he was approached, which touched on all sorts of topics Alex didn’t want to get into and might even compromise the mole if K-unit realized he’d anticipated their arrival.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stairwell loomed in front of him. He hurled himself at it, flying past the stairs themselves to slam into the wall of the lower landing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ow. He grunted, knowing he’d already made a loud thump and praying that Ben didn’t think anything of it. Rolling to his feet, he plowed down the next set of stairs with only a quick glance to confirm Ben hadn’t come running-- something he might do at any second now. Even if the hallways were dim and he’d only seen Alex’s back, surely it looked suspicious enough to investigate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to hurry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex could have kicked himself, suddenly. He should have gone up a level and waited-- thus eliminating the risk that he’d run into Ben on the return trip should he change his mind about the elevator. It would have been the smart thing to do, but Alex hadn’t had time to do the smart thing. Scaling the stairs would have taken longer than jumping down had. Ben would have seen him for sure if he hadn’t already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit, shit, shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His trainers pounded against the stairs, in conjunction with each bolt of adrenaline lancing through him. Glancing back up the way he came, he kept his eyes peeled and his ears strained for any hint of pursuit. Finding none, he paused five floors from the ground level to catch his breath, collapsed against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A young woman stared at him, keys out but not inserted in her door. She glanced uneasily at the stairwell behind him. “Are you okay? Who is--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing he needed was attention. Alex shook his head and grinned, still panting. “I am fine,” he told her, knowing damn well that his pronunciation was terrible even when he wasn’t struggling to draw air and just hoping that she understood the gist. “My girlfriend’s dad nearly saw me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave him a flat look as she finished opening her door. “Be more quiet. It’s too late for this nonsense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me, sorry.” Alex nodded until she left. He glanced back the way he came. Still no one following him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cautiously, he descended another three floors. He halted on the second level and bit his lip. If Ben hadn’t seen him, he had probably picked up his food and left already. But was Alex prepared to take that risk and run smack into him? It would be just his luck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Double checking that the lobby was empty with his iPod, Alex let out a massive sigh of relief and shoved it back in his pocket. Breezing out the door as though he had every right to be there, Alex didn’t completely relax until the crisp night air greeted him outside. His coat was still unzipped, but Alex actually spread it open further, welcoming the sharp cold air against his overheated flesh. The building had been sweltering and running hadn’t helped the matter either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still. No time to waste, even if he was more or less in the clear. He had a scolding to get to. Wanting cold air on his neck, he twisted his hair up into a little bun and set off for the apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Chapter 44</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, all! </p><p>I have to say, I'm getting super excited for these next parts. And by excited, I mean, "I'm rubbing my devious little paws together and cackling to myself." Just so you know. ♥️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben shoved his glasses up, watching the small figure disappear from the light of the closest streetlamp. Not that he needed the light with the nightvision capabilities of his spectacles to recognize the brat. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I knew it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle sighed from where he was wrestling noodles onto his plastic fork. “Yes, Ben, you do look like a prick wearing those at night. We didn’t want to say anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben snapped his fingers, cutting off Wolf before he could chime in. “Alex was here. Outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Snake said, coming to stand by the window and squinting down at the pavement below. “How do you--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard something in the hallway when I went out to get the food. I didn’t realize it was him until just now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Setting down his plate, Wolf crossed his arms and gave him a sharp look. “Why didn’t you look into it? Anyone listening in on or taking notice of this flat is a bad sign. It could have been anyone. The SVR. Those mafia people Gregorovitch works with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “I went back for my wallet, remember? I didn’t see anyone running, I just heard a noise like someone had tripped and hurried on. There’s a lot of people in this building and none have seemed interested in us. I didn’t actually see it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> him until now. I mean, it had to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do we do?” Snake asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure we need to do anything,” Wolf said slowly. “He’s supposed to know we’re here. That’s the mission. If he’s spooked, that was going to happen regardless, correct? I know we’re not supposed to approach him until Monday but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what did he overhear?” Eagle dragged himself to his feet. “He was standing outside the flat so he was probably eavesdropping, if I had to take a guess. I don’t think we said anything scary. I mean, we did mention the mission before Ben left to get the food, though…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben heaved a massive sigh. “We’re off to a great start then. I mean, it’s obvious we’re here for a mission that involves him, but now we have to assume they know the details of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Internally, he cheered. Any signs that their appearance in Russia had been anticipated would be chalked up to Alex being Alex, not a mole passing information to Smithers at a semi-steady rate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf scowled. “It’s probably better we talk to him as soon as possible. Make sure he’s got his story straight in case he goes talking to Gregorovitch. If he didn’t overhear the actual mission directive, he might give the guy the impression we’re here for more trouble than we intend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Wolf was right, but more than he knew. Gregorovich already knew about the mission itself, but Ben wasn’t certain the man understood who they were exactly. That they were the same team of soldiers sent to snatch Alex last time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, that was assuming that Alex didn’t point to Ben immediately and list his real profession. Soldiers already looked bad enough, but MI6’s coverup of Ben’s agent status would suddenly look a lot more aggressive. An obvious threat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This could be a massive problem if not approached carefully and quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben set his jaw and used his glasses again, unease growing. “It’s too late. I think he just went into his building. There’s no way we’ll get past the concierge at this hour. Our building schematics don’t show any other good way in except the front door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake grimaced. “Well, back to the original plan then. We approach him ASAP and pray no one gets the wrong idea in the meantime. Maybe we should take shifts tonight in case we get a visit from everyone’s favorite terrorist for hire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agreed.” Ben scrubbed a hand across his face. “This was partially my fault, so I’ll take first. You guys get some rest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex took the lift up to their floor, pressing a hand to his chest as his heart rate finally returned to normal. His night surely wasn’t over, but talking to Yassen wouldn’t be quite as stress inducing. The man would be frustrated with him, certainly, and angry that he’d lied to him over text. Still, Yassen had an unusually high tolerance for Alex’s general… Alex-ness… and would at least hear him out about what he’d been up to before he started in on him for the riskiness of what he’d done. Alex might have technically endangered himself, but now he could confirm who had come and what their strategy was, so that had to be worth something, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He entered the code and tapped his keyfob before tugging open the front door. Yassen would be very, very cross with him. Alex was sure to get at least a twenty minute safety lecture. He scowled as he tugged off his coat and glanced around the empty apartment. Yassen must be out getting food. It was just as well: it would buy Alex plenty of time to figure out how to appease the man. Maybe he’d promise to be extra safe for the next few weeks and go straight home after school. Do some extra cleaning. Let the man pick what Alex ate for dinner for at least one meal. Perhaps try his hand at cooking dinner himself one of these nights and--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex froze, looking down at the slightly ajar foil lid of the brownie pan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He yanked it up, confirming his fears: an empty space remained where a full sized brownie had been removed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was supposed to have cut those squares into quarters when he got home, to mimic the edible’s THC content that he’d gotten used to in America. Only he was also supposed to cut those quarters into eighths to make sure it wasn’t more than he could handle because this strain was especially potent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He yanked out his phone, darting over to Yassen’s bedroom door to confirm it was empty. So was the office for that matter-- the door hung open to reveal the dark, empty interior. He glanced back down at the little screen, furious to realize he hadn’t actually checked the text he’d gotten just as Ben had started to leave the apartment. Had forgotten all about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was going to be right there? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. He thought Alex was across town at the market they’d shopped with Dima at and had gone to join him. Meeting up with him like they often did to save time. So they could get food together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glared at the screen, flicking through menus until he could see what time the message had been sent. Fifteen-- no, twenty minutes ago. Shit. Yassen could be nearly there by now if he’d taken a taxi. Maybe he was riding a train. This was assuming that he sent the text before leaving and not while he was on his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teenager winced. In Kingman, when he’d done edibles for the first time, Yassen had said he didn’t know how long they lasted since he’d never tried any. As far as Alex knew, cigarettes and booze were the most mind altering chemicals Yassen had ever done, not that the man had given him his entire substance abuse history. He certainly seemed to lack first hand knowledge of what Alex’s own highs were like so Alex was willing to bet it wasn’t extensive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex buried his face in his hands, letting out a soft moan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen, an armed assassin with a Scorpia-sized paranoid streak and the predisposition to enact violence at the drop of a hat, was about to be VERY unexpectedly high in downtown Moscow without any understanding of what was happening, all while K-Unit was camped out across the street trying to gather evidence that the man was unfit to look after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dialed Yassen’s number immediately, without bothering to rehearse his phrasing. No matter how much shit he was going to catch for this, he had to warn the man about what was going to happen. It rang and rang and rang. He hung up and dialed again as voicemail kicked on. Actually-- Alex paused to grab his coat and drag it back on-- even if Yassen did pick up, he might be too disoriented to navigate himself out of a paper bag, much less back onto the metro and back home without making it obvious that he was inebriated. Alex would just have to hope he found the man before anyone else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure he was by himself?” Wolf demanded, grabbing his coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben nodded, already planning. “Positive. Not only was he alone, he seemed worried. Phone pressed to his ear and on foot. He was in the building for maybe ten minutes. Not nearly enough time to explain himself to Gregorovitch and then he takes off like a bat out of hell. He’s going to meet him, obviously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he’s panicking, that definitely suggests he doesn’t really understand our mission,” Snake said. “We might only get one chance to explain ourselves before he does something stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How sure are we that’s what’s going on?” Eagle asked slowly. He held up a hand. “Hear me out. What if he’s just high?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake gave him a stern look. “Then he’s in distress and might still need help. Not that it changes the fact that he probably did eavesdrop on us. Really, Eagle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Point taken. We might also need to consider that he’s leading us into a trap before we go tearing out here,” Eagle countered. Regardless of his words, he grabbed his coat and tugged it on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf scowled. “Now who’s calling him a junior terrorist?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have time to squabble,” Ben snapped. “But there is the chance that he’ll double back or slip through our fingers. Wolf, you’re with me. Snake and Eagle, keep an eye on their building in case he returns or gives us the slip. I’m not taking any chances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle scowled, but didn’t argue. “I suppose we don’t want to be caught on our own in case mummy comes home early, do we? Fine. Buddy system it is. Stay in touch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sharp nod, Ben let himself out of the apartment, heading steadily for the lift with Wolf hot on his heels. It seemed to take an entire eternity, though intellectually Ben knew this was faster than trying to use the stairs. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to summon his patience, doing everything in his power to keep his face smooth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf studied him, eyes tense. “Spill it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re holding back,” Wolf said as the door to the elevator dinged open and they both swiftly stepped on. He turned to face the door as it shut. “When we realized Cub overheard everything, you went on high alert. More so than anyone else. I trust you fine even though you’re a spy now, but don’t let the whole team run in blind. Give us something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben set his jaw, not bothering to deny it. Damn. While he definitely hadn’t expected Wolf to read him so well and would have to work on that, he still had plenty of room to express his doubts without roping anyone in on the riskier points of his situation. “I’ve got suspicions about this mission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all do,” Wolf said wearily, folding his arms as his eyes drifted to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re off-duty soldiers, according to our visas,” Ben went on, staring straight ahead. “Technically, it’s legal to be here and technically, we don’t work for MI6, but it’s got to look dodgy as hell. Whatever evidence we collect might not be taken seriously because of it. We don’t even have great surveillance equipment, just stealthier versions of the basics. That makes our presence almost pointless unless we get Alex to avoid testifying and I’d say our odds of that are low.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf gave him a side eye. “You think we’re here for something else. A kidnapping?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” Ben said heavily. “Or we’re here as sacrificial lambs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God damn it.” Wolf whipped around to face him. “What makes you--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think about it. Soldiers approaching the kid. Living across the street from Gregorovich. Not sending agents that will blend in or even people Alex knows well. The government might tolerate us for the sake of appearances, but Gregorovich is extremely careful. I’ve poured over his files. Studied him as much as I could. He’s far from an idiot and he doesn’t make many mistakes, such as tolerating what appear to be combat-based operatives moving in across the street.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben took in a deep breath, watching the illuminated floor numbers count down until they were at the ground floor. “I have no proof, but I’m starting to wonder if we’re really the only team in Moscow. Are we here to spook Alex into going quiet, or is it really Gregorovitch’s hand we’re here to force?” Ben turned to his comrade and looked him dead in the eyes. “You have to admit, our murders would be quite convenient for MI6 if they can be documented. Prove that he’s both a killer and a danger to Alex in one move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf jerked a hand at the elevator. “So you suggested we split up and try to meet him? Christ, Fox.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “No. If I’m right, our only chance is to explain ourselves to Alex </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gregorovitch gets the wrong idea. That, or try to convince both of them directly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or we expedite the process by looking like we’re attacking both of them,” Wolf hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben spread his arms. “What other choice do we have? Just by being here, we present a problem to him. We arrived today. He could become aware of us at any second. At least if we try to get ahead of this and introduce ourselves, there’s a chance that he might listen or at least won’t kill us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Chapter 45</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, y'all! I've been looking forward to these next few chapters for some time, so please enjoy. :D :D :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen stared at the endless, gleaming rows of glass bottles as warm artificial light winked off of them like a thousand starry twinkle lights. Blinking, it took him a minute to realize he’d been staring at the aisle without real purpose for at least a minute. Or was it more? Possibly. He couldn’t quite remember. At any rate, gaping at the shelves of Laszlo’s wasn’t what he came here to do. Just because things were louder and brighter and stronger smelling than normal, didn’t mean he should allow himself to get so distracted. Alex was probably loading up a shopping cart while he stood here like an idiot and it was time to get a move on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Striding carefully to the next aisle, Yassen glanced down it quickly, eyes searching for the hideous little ponytail pulled high on the brat’s head. Nothing but jars and packaging. Yassen took a step forward, eyes picking out the actual details of the gold label closest to him. Pickled watermelon. An old favorite-- at least, back when he’d allowed himself to have favorites.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused. It had been years since he’d had any and now it sounded amazing. He couldn't imagine wanting to eat anything else as perfect as--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes lit upon the bottle beside it: pickled tomatoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevermind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen wasn’t consciously aware of grabbing a shopping basket from the stack beside the aisle entrance, yet here he was, propping it against his hip while he yanked jars off of the shelf. They’d have dinner in tonight. Instead of a hot meal, they could just have snacks. Snacks sounded wonderful. Like tapas, only Yassen had to exert zero effort in preparing them himself or dealing with the wait of a restaurant. Really, if you thought about it, meals were just collections of different snacks, all served together and many of which just took longer to prepare than others. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Complicated</span>
  </em>
  <span> snacks. Eating straight from a jar or a package wasn’t any different, really, when one considered the concept of a meal. In fact, it was simply more efficient. Less waiting. No dishes. Yassen marveled at the straightforwardness of the process. Whoever invented little snacks in packages understood food a lot better than whoever had come up with big, overwrought meals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent of the bakery drew him like a bee to a freshly unfurled flower. Even at the end of the day when the ovens were cold and empty, the soft, floury, and butter laden smell of pastries filled the air from the other side of the store. The cart’s wheels squeaked softly as he changed directions. He paused only to snatch a bottle of kvass from an endcap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking, he found himself on the other side of the store, just beside a woven basket display of plyushka, with a bag of the sugar dipped pastries in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drew in a sharp breath and glanced around. It felt like he was missing chunks of time. How long had he even been here? It could have been five minutes or it could have been five hours. Yassen would believe either with the state of his memory right now. He glanced down at his basket, full to the brim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was wrong with him? And where was Alex?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An employee wearing a dark blue apron was watching him out of the corner of his eye, hands folded in front of himself. An older gentleman with salt and pepper hair trimmed ever so neatly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Self-consciousness flooded the assassin. Did he himself look a mess? Probably. Damn. He was supposed to avoid drawing attention to himself as a general rule, but Yassen couldn’t even remember what he was wearing right now. He didn’t belong in a store like this, surely. The man had to know that something was wrong with Yassen, that Yassen shouldn’t be here. That he was probably up to something. He’d be approached soon, maybe even by security. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s stomach clenched before he could help himself. The best thing to do would be to just go straight to the registers, pay for his items, and get out before things could escalate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He strode carefully to the register, trying his best not to look like there was anything going on with him. Passing the man took more effort than he expected, even though he avoided real eye contact. The instinct to lash out and bolt rose in him, but he plowed forward until he was standing in line behind a middle aged woman while a teenager with a tall blonde ponytail collected her change from the cashier. Or was trying to, except that she kept dropping it and giggling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stupid teenagers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. He was supposed to be looking for Alex. Yassen glanced back at the aisles, wishing he could search them again but he already probably looked so suspicious he should really just get out of here and go. Absently, checking for his wallet in his pocket (how frustrating it would be to forget it), he realized again that time was moving oddly. Maybe it wasn’t time. Maybe it was Yassen himself. He was oddly conscious of his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something was wrong. Very wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, being unable to track time accurately was not a problem he had ever had. Precise estimation and presence of mind was what he’d been paid to do for years, apart from committing murder or faciliating it for others. Was it fair to say he was a murder coordinator? A murder supervisor? No. He had to do a lot of the work himself and there were often strange requests. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Designer murders, by Yassen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He snorted softly to himself.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Second, he kept getting so damn distracted, which was possibly the worst thing he could do. Nowhere was ever completely safe and he was supposed to stay alert to any problems that might develop in under the space of a minute. It took far less for someone to pull out a gun and start shooting, or make them in a crowd, or slip a tracking device into a pocket. Vigilance wasn’t optional. His life depended on it. Alex’s life depended on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where was Alex?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Third, why were things so…. Riveting? Potent? Loud? All of his senses felt like they’d been dialed up to the point where it was hard to hear his own thoughts--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready, sir?” the woman at the till asked him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked and realized the middle aged woman in front of him had already finished paying for her groceries and was gathering her bags from the belt. With a nod, he stepped forward and dropped his own basket on the conveyor, trying not to let on to any of his own nerves. Most people weren’t stressed out when they shopped, were they? Perhaps they were. Perhaps he did not look so odd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was never that lucky, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The young cashier-- dark haired, cut short, barely a few years older than Alex with a bright pink smear of lipstick that reminded Yassen of an eraser-- began ringing him up, but he was certain that she was watching him and wondering why he was acting so strange. So obviously odd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell was happening to him? He wasn’t drunk. Or at least, he couldn’t remember drinking. Perhaps he’d forgotten taking a shot before he’d left the flat? Unlikely. Drinking didn’t make him feel like this, though-- usually it made him feel warm, sleepy, and a little bit chatty. Yassen would never consider recreational drugs, and he would definitely never take any of Alex’s, so forgetting he’d taken any opiates was certainly out. It wasn’t like he kept anything else around, so he was out of likely chemical candidates, unless he’d been poisoned somehow. Not that any of the likely candidates had any reason to poison him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A terrifying thought struck him. It was so mundane it hopped the fence of doubt and struck him as most likely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dementia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was getting older, but he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> old. Then again, his grandmother had only been in her late fifties, and his mother had said her confusion had started around the time he was born. While he wouldn’t call himself elderly, he was suddenly struck with how much closer he was to forty than thirty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like his chest cavity was filling with ice. Had it finally come for him? Had the complicated warren of synapses in his brain finally failed him as they were programmed to do? Was this what having your mind slip away felt like? He didn't think it was supposed to happen all at once, but perhaps it hadn't and he’d just forgotten the parts in between already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir? Sir, your phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen came back to himself and looked at the cashier. “Pardon. What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your phone,” she said emphatically, gesturing to his empty red basket where only his little silver flip phone rested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strange. He didn’t remember dropping it in there, but then again, he last remembered pulling it out when he arrived, intending to text Alex… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course.” He retrieved the phone and opened it. Twelve missed calls from Alex. Damn. Yanking out his wallet, he quickly paid in cash and gathered his bag, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. It took a monumental amount of effort, but after one tiny eternity, he found himself outside the store, holding his large bag and wondering just how he should go about getting home. There were so many steps to that, between here and there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled. Literally. There were a lot of steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex loved puns. Maybe he’d tell him this one, when he saw him. If he remembered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A familiar figure hurried up to him, that annoying little bun bouncing as he ran. “There you are!” Alex said, throwing his arms around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked down at him. Right. Alex had called him. They were supposed to meet here. Why didn't they just meet inside the store like Yassen intended? And now he was being hugged. Lots of things were happening today. Why did it all feel important?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here I am,” was all he could think to say, patting Alex on the back with his free hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hurried as fast as I could, but you weren’t answering and I got worried. I’m so glad you’re still here.” Alex glanced up at him and bit his lip. “Prepare to be cross with me, Yassen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded. “Okay. Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex studied him and stepped back. “You can feel it already, can’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s heart sank. “I didn’t know you could feel dementia. How can you tell? I’m so--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No. No, Yassen, you don’t have dementia. It’s just--” Alex broke off and stared down at the oversized plastic bag in Yassen’s hand. “What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snacks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything looked really good,” Yassen offered, by way of explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’ll do that,” Alex muttered. “Okay, I know it’s really tricky to focus right now, but I need you to listen to me. Let me preface this with my promise to get better at texting and at not doing stupid things. And maybe labeling the things I leave in the kitchen. Alright, the first thing you need to know is that the brownie you ate was full of pot. A lot of pot. More than </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> supposed to take.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared at him, unblinking. He almost couldn’t process the words and apply them to himself. “Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Alex added. “You’re going to be just fine. It’ll wear off. Just-- have you done pot before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Yassen rubbed his face with his free hand and let out a frustrated huff. “I’m high? That’s what this is? Alex, I don’t want to be high. I don’t want it. This is stupid. Why do people do this? It’s not nice. I feel like my confused grandmother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chert. His thoughts were spilling out of his mouth. Like brain drool. How embarrassing. He needed to stop immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry,” Alex said quickly, wrapping his hands around Yassen’s arm and towing him gently through the small concrete courtyard separating the store from the main street. “It’ll wear off. Maybe even be a little fun as the night wears on. You’ll go back to normal no matter what, so just relax. I know you’re paranoid enough as it is, but for a lot of people, weed can make it a lot worse. Remember, it’s just all in your head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not paranoid, I’m cautious and practical,” Yassen informed him, allowing Alex to steer him in the direction of the closest metro station. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groaned. The metro made sense, as did maybe catching a bus, but it just… it would take forever. And he’d be surrounded by people. And now he’d have to pretend very hard that he wasn’t high. Why couldn’t Moscow have more cabs? He groaned again and tipped his head back, thoroughly sick of the entire evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be fine. They’d go home and he’d smoke. And eat snacks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was the other thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said the pot brownie thing was first.” Righting his head, Yassen scowled at the brat. “And that you did a stupid thing. What was the stupid thing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of all the times for weed’s distractibility to fail, this would have to be the moment. Alex sighed as he released Yassen’s arm, trusting the man to amble after him in a straight line. Of course Yassen would pick one intellectual thread to follow for more than ten seconds, and it would be the one that Alex really didn’t want to explain the most. Or conveniently pick this particular moment to start regaining his ability to focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just Alex’s luck. Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I should right now,” Alex admitted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s kind of complicated and I don’t want you to worry about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That deepened the older man’s scowl. “Well now I’m just worrying even more. Just tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Alex mused, as they approached the steps that led down into the station. No sign of K-Unit. Good. They were probably still settling in for their mission and otherwise distracted. A problem for later. He could explain the whole situation to Yassen tomorrow morning, when he woke up hungover but with significantly better information retention. The last thing he needed was Yassen deciding to proactively solve the problem, especially not in this state. “There’s a lesson in here somewhere for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing. I just have these vague memories of someone telling me all the damn time that I shouldn’t worry about the things he didn’t want to explain to me, only I did anyway, so it was just a lot of pointless stress on both of our parts.” Alex tilted his head to look back at him, widening his eyes with every ounce of false innocence he could channel. “Any ideas of to whom I’m referring?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen huffed again as Alex looked forward and resumed walking. “Well, if I had to guess, I’d say you’re actually talking about this kid I know. Tiny and impulsive? With horrible hair? Does the worst possible thing out of sheer stubbornness?” The man paused, obviously thinking something over. Hopefully, a revelation about the dangers of withholding information. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Alex was one to talk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retrospect, Alex should have never trusted that silent pause. When he turned around, Yassen was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stood there, wide eyed for a complete second. “Yassen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where could he have gone? The darkened street was empty except for a young couple holding hands and a trickle of people leaving the metro, none of which remotely resembled the contract killer. Most businesses were closed due to the cold and the hour, their lights dark and edifices lit mainly by the glow of street lamps and stylish backlighting of their signs.  He hadn’t even heard the man take off, and with the amount of loose snow salt sprinkled along the walking areas, he should have made </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What. The. Hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Yassen,” Alex called. “It’s not funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answering call. Shit. Where had he gone off to? No one could have possibly snatched him in so short a time. If they had, why they’d left Alex behind was baffling in and of itself, since he’d consider himself the riper target for a kidnapping than a 180 pound assassin with violent reflexes and significantly reduced impulse control. Nope. Yassen had just taken off for no particular reason, at the worst possible time, with no understanding of the situation involving K-Unit, who were likely surveilling the apartment and hoping for something just like this to happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex darted forward in the direction they’d come, but didn’t see anyone on the street. It was unlikely the man had slipped past him into the station, so that was out. He hoped. Obviously, if the apartment was being surveilled from the exterior, he needed to intercept the man before he made it home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If beating him home were his goal. If Yassen even had a goal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On instinct, Alex turned into a sidestreet, a little bigger than an alley and followed it down; the closest option that wasn’t returning to the grocery store. It hadn’t snowed recently enough for him to tell if anyone had stepped through in the last minute and the solar salt was scant enough that it didn’t provide many clues either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately, his search didn’t last long. As soon as he emerged onto the next street over, he spotted a familiar figure standing in front of a large glass building, peering into the unlit interior, a needlessly large shopping bag swinging at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex exhaled with relief and jogged across the street to join him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that for?” he demanded, as soon as he was close enough to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked at him. “Hm? Oh, that was because there might be a lesson in there for you. About how stressful it is to have someone run away from you unexpectedly. A lesson on worrying.” Before Alex could really parse the fact that Yassen obviously still had hurt feelings on his long-forgotten runaway attempt in Probably Texas, the man gestured at the window. “But never mind. Look at </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked, squinting. The modern glass building appeared to house a children’s museum on the lower levels, based on the bright coloring of the walls, seating, and hands-on displays surrounding the front desk and entrance. A bright green vintage military jeep, complete with a canvas top, took up the main space, with a small set of stairs to aid children in climbing inside it to have their pictures taken. A sign beside it said something about a military museum, from what he could make out. Likely on loan for cross promotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “It’s a jeep,” he said, a little amused as he watched Yassen stare happily at it through the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Yassen corrected him without glancing away. “It’s a GAZ-69. Completely different. This model was used as the basis for the 2P26 tank destroyer. Had two fuel tanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked back and forth between them. “I’m surprised you can tell it apart from other models in the dark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fog lamp placement is different than in the GAZ-67. That’s how I can tell. We used to have a picture of my grandfather in his, from back during the war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? We should go to the museum they borrowed this from sometime,” Alex said, after a minute. “I bet you they’ll have helicopters and--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben Daniels appeared around the corner suddenly, maybe two hundred feet up the street from them. Unmistakable by his walk and the way he glanced around: there was just something so distinctive about the way spies carried themselves to Alex, something about the way they kept their cores relaxed and ready without obvious purpose, yet this stride was oddly straight backed too. Military-esque. Fox was the only he’d ever met that blended the two. For a minute, Alex hoped it was a wild coincidence of gait, that some other half spook, half military man had chosen this particular moment to stroll down this particular empty street, but the man stiffened as he saw them and slowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nope. He was definitely looking for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed. Obviously trying to keep them in sight while he called for backup, since it was a safe (and correct) assumption that Yassen was armed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen, you’re right, and I should have explained things sooner even if you might not understand it all at once,” Alex said, grabbing his arm and steering him around the side of the children’s museum. The side street Alex had taken before continued further west, hopefully leading to another major road. “And I will fix that soon, but we need to go home right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Yassen obliged Alex’s towing, while turning his head to look where Alex had been staring just a moment ago. His eyes narrowed on the MI6 agent, quickly joined by another thick coated figure with a more obviously military stance than Ben’s. Too short to be Eagle, so maybe Snake or Wolf? “Who is that? MI6?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head, refusing to let Yassen retract his hand as they hurried away. No doubt the assassin was aiming to check the firearm he kept in the small of his back. “Not exactly. It’s K-unit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Bullies.” He muttered something else under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, the team I trained with ages ago,” Alex said. Their feet pounded the pavement softly. “Wait. What did you just say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It means ‘fuck off’,” Yassen informed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard ‘go to’,” Alex muttered, eyes darting along the street for any good paths off the street. Nothing yet, given the sheer size of the museum, but they were almost to the corner. They would be out of K-unit’s line of sight in seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “They know where to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ass. It’s ‘go to ass.’ That’s why it’s Russian for ‘fuck off’, not ‘go to hell’, little Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rounded the corner. Finally. They had to use every second of this time while they had it. Yanking on Yassen’s hand in warning, Alex picked up speed, glancing around and cursing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything nearby was closed and dark. The road ended with a small parking area visible in the near-distance; the obvious entrance to one of the many, small wooded parks in the area. While it would be a decent option to hide in during good weather earlier in the year, the snow that had been left undisturbed would surely give them away if they tried to leave the shoveled paths and evade their pursuers. There was one other sidewalk that led behind the buildings across the street and away from the immediate area, but that would ultimately lead them further away from the nearest metro station and offered no immediate cover. He wasn’t sure they could move fast enough to avoid being followed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are the bullies still following?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hissed through his teeth. “I told you, they’re not bullies chasing us, it’s K-unit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Yassen snapped, eyes dark. “The ones who bullied you in training.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t bullied,” Alex huffed. “They were just assholes. It’s different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate bullies,” was all Yassen said in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was absolutely time to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex glanced to the other side of the road. There was another paved courtyard-- almost like an open patio-- tucked behind the museum, well cleared of snow and salted, with plenty of outdoor seating and some bronze play statues. Smack in the center of it all was a camouflaged colored tank. From this angle it was hard to tell, but Alex thought he saw something that resembled the stairs leading into the jeep. It was their best chance-- not just at evading immediate detection, but also at buying them time. Alex might be semi-functional while high as balls, but Yassen had no experience with weed, had taken four times the max dosage Alex was allowed (or possibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>even eight</span>
  </em>
  <span>), and possessed a skillset that was quite a bit more lethal than Alex’s. Now was not the time to see if he could sustain enough focus to bolt without doing something drastic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, hurry,” Alex said, gripping Yassen’s sleeve and taking off as quickly as he could. Yassen broke into a jog, keeping pace with him easily. Alex took a moment to let the petty envy that Yassen could stay so fit and be high wash over him as they approached the tank and swung around it. He shoved Yassen at the stairs, only partially shielded from view. “Go, go, go. Get in. Quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scoffed, but went along with it. Thank christ he’d gotten so used to humoring him that he didn’t bother questioning it. “They won’t leave it unlocked at night, little Alex,” he chided, testing the hatch. It swung open. “Oh, never mind,” he said, climbing in. Alex scrambled after him and eased the hatch shut behind himself, twisting it until he heard it lock. “Someone’s going to get fired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was pitch black. Knobs and square boxes and cold metal plates jabbed Alex all over. He wriggled, trying to find space for himself without sight to guide him. Truthfully, he’d expected it to be empty and stripped down, maybe with a platform installed so that children could pop their torsos out just enough for a quick photo. But, no, just his luck-- this seemed to be at least a mostly historically accurate cockpit-- or whatever the tank equivalent of a cockpit was called. He muttered a curse, frigid fingers probing and bumping into more sharp angles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, who would let children in these? He’d gotten at least four scrapes already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dim glow of light erupted around him. Wincing, he saw Yassen holding open his flip phone to offer him light, already in the driver’s seat and gesturing Alex to another spot off to the side. A gunner or a commander’s place maybe, based on the controls in front of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grunt, Alex climbed into the chair indicated and heaved a sigh. It was pretty cramped, though to be fair, Yassen was a lot taller than he was and not complaining. “Okay, I think we’ve bought some time--” he began in a low voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen wasn’t even listening. “Look at this,” he enthused, pulling off his gloves with his teeth to run his fingers over the controls. He shifted in his seat suddenly, now obviously playing with the pedals and levers. “I like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes, pulling out his iPod. He couldn’t help a small smile. “You’re into tanks, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’ve never been in one.” Yassen’s lips curved into a grin as he studied the dark readouts and switches hanging above him, leaning closer with his phone to see better. “It wasn’t practical for work, but now I think I should learn to drive one too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smither’s tech was a dream, of course. Alex turned on the infrared/x-ray function and while it had a tough time with the thick metal exterior of the tank, it did give him the faint outlines of Ben and Snake/Eagle cautiously passing the tank as they approached the park. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Little flares of added light illuminated at odd parts on their person. Odd. A puzzle for another day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be very fun,” Alex said diplomatically to Yassen, tracking their searchers’ progress. Great. Now they had paused and were gesturing to one another. Likely debating their direction and how quickly they disappeared. “Maybe we can find a range that will let us rent one or give us a lesson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a bad idea in the least. If Alex were less focused on transporting this oddly delighted and incredibly high assassin back to the safety of their flat, he’d probably be pulling levers and poking buttons alongside him. He’d never got to sit in one either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admittedly, it was a very cool tank, if cramped and ice cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet I can get it to start.” Yassen began flicking switches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex actually snorted at that. “Sure. It was already pressing our luck that this thing was open, but maybe they’ve left us the keys? This thing is ancient. I’m surprised it even has seats.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly,” Yassen scoffed, still flicking every switch, knob, and dial he could get his hands on. “Look at the readouts. This is eighties tech at the latest. Besides, artillery vehicles didn’t usually have keys then, little Alex. What if the driver was captured or killed? Any member of the crew needed to be able to at least attempt to save the team or keep the tank out of enemy hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex propped his chin in his hand, glancing back down at his iPod. Ben and Snake/Wolf had yet to move, still arguing. They had some time to kill before they had to slip away. “I don’t think they’d let children play in this thing if there was a chance it could do anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Children would be supervised. The combinations are complicated, from what I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who told you that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw it in a documentary. Actually, a few,” Yassen amended. The admission only slowed him down a second or two before he was back at his little puzzle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was a little tempted to let Yassen keep chasing this flight of fancy. Frankly, it was a little endearing watching the hopefulness at which he was trying every combination known to man. A small grin worked its way across Alex’s face. “Okay. So if this ancient eighties tank somehow managed to retain functionality--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The eighties is not ancient. I was there,” Yassen insisted. His offense was interrupted by the discovery of one of the operator’s helmets, which he pulled on without hesitation despite the way it forced him to crane his head to fit without hitting the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snickered and plowed on. “So if this ancient tank still works by some miracle, you’re hoping you’ll just stumble upon the exact right combination of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interior powered on suddenly, washing both of their faces in a soft blue digital glow. Red, green, and orange switches flickered to life. With a delighted laugh, Yassen tapped a small black button beside his chair and the engine turned over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bloody. Fucking. Hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen peered through the periscope/eye slot thing and grabbed a lever at the same time he stomped on the gas. The tank rocked, but didn’t lurch forward more than a foot. “There’s a brake. Give me a minute. I can figure this out. I think this is the gear shift and this--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben and Wolf/Snake’s forms turned towards the tank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck, fuck, fuck--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen, no,” Alex hissed, swatting at the man’s shoulder. “Stop that. Turn it off. They’ve heard--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are they?” Yassen swiveled the periscope to the side, locking on them quicker than Alex would have thought possible. “Oh, I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without warning, the tank jerked sharply and began moving forward as Yassen evidently found the parking brake. Abruptly, they picked up speed, followed by a slight impact. It didn’t do much more than rock them, though the loud showering sounds of broken glass clued him in to the fact that they’d likely struck the side of the children’s museum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was rooted in place with horror. Vankin was going to kill the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to see if I can hit them,” Yassen muttered under his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just Alex’s fucking luck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen, no,” Alex snapped. There was barely room to move, but he managed to lean far enough out of his seat with just enough room to smack Yassen upside the head. The helmet absorbed all of the impact. “Stop. Now. I’m serious. Turn it off!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullies,” Yassen countered, giving Alex a stung look for the blow that in no way discouraged him from his smacking. He snickered. “Squished bullies soon. Bully patĕ? Just don’t look out. Less trauma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex showered his head in ineffectual smacks as they suddenly changed directions. “No! Stop! You can’t hit them! We’re supposed to be sneaking away not--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Technically,” Yassen pointed out. “They don’t know it’s us. It could be anyone in this tank.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not the fucking point, Yassen, and you know it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check if there are any rounds in the cannon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not. Pull over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed. “Yeah, there probably aren’t any. That would be crazy. Running them over it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“NO.” Alex resumed his hitting, keeping an eye on his iPod screen to confirm that Ben and the other member of K-unit had scattered as they watched the tank approach. Smart. They’d headed into the park, where there was less open space and the tank would struggle to navigate around the trees and fountains and raised brick flower beds. As they reached diverging paths beside the large fountain towards the center, they split up in opposite directions. “DON’T! Do not! Stop right now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen squinted into the periscope. “Oh, I think I see one of them.” He gunned the tank, rocking them both as it picked up speed suddenly and bounced over a curb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least Alex hoped it was a curb. He swiveled his own limited gunner’s periscope and used his iPod to confirm that indeed there were no bodies lying in the street or stray heat signatures half crushed in their wake. He let out a sharp exhale as the tank suddenly impacted something hard, tossing them around but quickly scaling the impediment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the thick metal bollards that prevented cars from attempting to drive into the park’s foot entrance, from what Alex could discern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen,” Alex said, grabbing the man’s shoulder. “We need to leave the tank and run. You hit the children’s museum and someone is going to call the police. We need to go, right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, sure,” Yassen muttered, shifting levers without so much as a pause. “In a minute. I’ll be fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll just hit one of them. How about that? One. A warning to the others.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shoved his fists against his eye sockets. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were pricks at camp. You said it yourself.” Yassen scowled. “Besides, they were very condescending. I heard them over the phone in Kingman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yes, but--” Alex gave up. It seemed that Yassen had more secret talents the teen was only just now becoming privy to: antique vehicle identification, improvised tank driving, and holding other people's grudges, to name a few. He blew a gust of air out of his lips. He doubted an ethical debate on what crimes against him were worthy of murder would not be particularly productive with the contract killer even were he sober. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A stray shape caught his eye on the iPod’s tiny screen. “Yassen, turn! Don’t hit the dog!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tank pivoted sharply, slamming into something and bouncing upwards as it absorbed the impact and tried to scale the problem. They came to a halt suddenly, half in the air. Yassen grumbled and shifted the levers; they jerked slightly in response and Alex could feel the traction half grab the ground, but the tank refused to move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen groaned. “Hold on. We’re stuck on a stone fountain. I think I can get us free--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your minute is up. Please, we need to hurry before the police arrive,” Alex said, shaking his shoulder. Before Yassen could argue, he twisted open the hatch and climbed out. The wind picked up, throwing loose snow in his face. Shielding his eyes, Alex climbed onto the external surface of the tank and glanced around at the empty park, lit dimly by only a smattering of decorative street lamps. Well, empty apart from the tan and black colored mutt high-tailing it through the snow into the brush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No sign of K-unit, thank god. Police sirens wailed in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grumbling, Yassen followed him onto the surface of the tank exterior, still wearing the operator's helmet. “Fine, little Alex. It’s probably just a stray, but they live in packs here. If we keep going, I’ll probably hit one eventually. No crying. Just don’t cry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex reached up and yanked the helmet off the man’s head, tossing it back inside. The last thing they needed was more evidence connecting them to any unusual crimes, even if it would make a neat souvenir and he kind of wished he’d gotten a chance to wear it himself. Fucking Hell. Why did he have to be the responsible adult this time? This was so much less fun than drunk toddler. He pulled out his keys and unhooked the small football player keychain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen held out an arm, before kneeling by the hatch and reaching in. “Wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The police sirens grew louder. The park wasn’t overly large, but they were in the center area, furthest from the road best suited to escape, and with a very clear path of damage carved into the landscape like a giant arrow for law enforcement saying “tank thieves this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hissed. “Yassen, we don’t have time--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pulled out the giant plastic bag he’d brought from the store. Alex stared. He hadn’t even realized the man had managed to bring it with him this far and keep track of it as they ran, much less store it somewhere in the claustrophobically small tank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dinner is snacks tonight,” the assassin said. “And I’m starving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ex-spy let out a laugh, shoulders heaving as he twisted the little player’s plastic head and activated the detonator. He dropped it in the hatch and shut it before easing himself down the length of the tank and onto the shoveled walkway below. The tank rocked from the force of the internal explosion as Yassen followed him. “Okay, Mum. Let’s go home and have dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. Chapter 46</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Sorry, meant to post this earlier today. Happy Monday!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen came back to himself with a sharp inhale, glancing down at the small hand clamped around his in a vice grip. His eyes tracked it to the back of Alex’s head, realizing suddenly that Alex was leading him down the brightly lit steps of a subway station. Yassen glanced around. What street had they entered from? How long had it been since the park? And why in god’s name was Alex not wearing gloves?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex,” he said, without thinking. What were they doing again? “You forgot your gloves. Do you know how cold it is outside? Even if you don’t get frostbite, blood flow is extremely important--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy glanced at him and sighed as he released his hand, shoving bills at one of the first ticket machines they encountered and yanking them out of the print-out with bright pink fingers. He shoved them in his pockets right away. “You know, it is a touch chilly, but I hadn’t really stopped to consider it considering everything else</span>
  <em>
    <span> I have to worry about.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll fix it in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever the mess, Yassen was confident he could sort it out. Make some phone calls. Bribe the right people. What mess was the boy talking about anyway? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, yes. The tank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Actually, that might be pretty difficult. Hm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How exactly?” Alex gave him an exasperated look, picking a train and hurrying towards it with Yassen trailing after. Fortunately, the crowds were thin and they had their pick of barely occupied cars. Alex dropped onto a seat and folded his arms, glowering up at Yassen. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. In the state you’re in, you’ll just do whatever you want and not even warn me. Fixing things. Breaking things. Running over people. Who bloody knows. Can we just go? All I want to do is get home and take care of you so you don’t do anything crazy on camera and you’re just making things needlessly difficult by acting like an utter loon and--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There wasn't even a warning snicker before Yassen found himself full on laughing. He braced himself against a pole, only dimly aware of the distant passengers giving him startled and annoyed glances from the other end of the car. “That’s hilarious,” he tried to explain to Alex, shaking with mirth and bobbing as the train took off. “Coming from </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s lips pinched together, watching Yassen trail off into snickers. He rolled his eyes a second later. “Okay, so maybe there’s just a few lessons I’m getting tonight,” the boy muttered. He flicked a mulish glance at Yassen before glancing away, watching the subway walls flicker past and sulking. “You’re getting some too at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lessons? Oh, yes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry,” he assured the boy, wiping at his eyes. “I’ll teach you everything I learned about driving a tank. It’s kind of like steering a boat, only a bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> like flying a helicopter too. It was tricky, though. I never realized how odd hands are.” He looked down at his own, wiggling his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raised an eyebrow. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat down next to Alex and patted his arm. “It’s fine. I’ll show you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex smiled at him, and it took a split second for Yassen to realize it was because Yassen had smiled at him first. Hands flying to his face, he tried to suppress the muscles’ movement, aghast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex,” he asked, very seriously. “Is it obvious I’m high?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, the boy laughed. “Yes, Yassen. I can very much tell that you’re high.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. A lance of anxiety stabbed through him, as it had at the store. When had that been? An hour ago? A year ago? He needed to stop forgetting things. Glancing around, he hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. “Can other people see it too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a wry look. “I knew you were the paranoid type. My roommate Jean was like that too. You’re going to spend the rest of your time high worrying that other people know, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But do they?” Yassen demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe, but I doubt it. Not so long as you don’t steal any more tanks,” Alex said, settling into his seat and giving Yassen an amused glance. “You’re more animated and expressive than normal, but that can be chalked up to personality. Also, we’re speaking English, so people might assume you’re foreign and not think much of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen considered that, gloved hands still touching his face in the vain hopes that he could suppress any more unintended displays. Chert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel?” the boy asked him after a minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen furrowed his brows, then made himself stop furrowing his brows. “It’s hard to think, though I also feel much better at it than usual. More thorough. Just not in the right order. Also, my face feels like it’s melting, even though I know it’s not. I imagine this is what dying feels like, only it’s both the worst thing ever and not that bad. I’m starting to think we should hide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned, rubbing his face and chuckling. “Yeah, you’ve had FAR too much. Let’s get home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen went back to probing at his own face. His traitorous, traitorous face. It was worse than not being able to keep his mouth shut, because it was like his face was now his whole mouth, telling people what he was thinking without his permission only there was nothing to physically shut and make it stop. He closed his eyes. No, that didn’t help, as suspected. One theory to cross off his list. He popped them back open with a scowl. How was he supposed to shut his face’s mouth? Not just his actual mouth, of course, but his whole face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was supposed to be good at it, but now he couldn’t remember the trick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not entirely taking his eyes off him, Alex fished out his little iPod from the depths of his thick jacket and grimaced. “Damn. I forgot to turn it off. Now the battery is running low. Infrared drains it like nothing else, I swear to god--” he broke off, squinting at the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” Yassen asked him, leaning over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just… there’s this bright spot on you.” Alex frowned and pointed the iPod at Yassen. The screen registered him as a warm shape, and this close up, captured the slight difference in the temperature of his firearm-- Yassen would have to remember that detail later-- but there, on his hip, was a bright flare. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen dug into his pocket and pulled out his own iPod. He turned it on, pointing it at Alex. “Mine sees the same thing. I think it’s the iPods,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A slow smile spread across the boy’s lips. “Wicked. I think Smithers added a secret feature. I didn’t put it together before when we were in the tank, but I think the iPod reveals his own surveillance tech. Lights it up, so I’ll always know who’s MI6.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced down at his little screen. “He could have said something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chuckled, panning his iPod to the side. “Maybe he just forgot to mention it. It has a load of features already. Maybe he did and I forgot.” Alex grabbed his arm, eyes riveted on the screen. “Yassen, they followed us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Yassen had just enough presence of mind not to look around noticeably; slowly panning his iPod instead until he picked up faint flairs on the car behind them. “Are you sure that’s them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, like I said, I saw the flares when we were in the tank, I just didn’t understand what they were.” Alex bit his lip, obviously thinking. “No matter which stop we pick, they’ll probably just follow us when we get off. They might have even called backup already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “How long ago was the tank?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifteen minutes, at most.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? It feels longer.” Yassen grimaced. “I don’t think they’ve called anyone. If they have, they’re incompetent if they haven’t caught up to us yet when they clearly know where we are. Besides, where we’re going is pretty obvious. I’m more surprised they didn’t try and beat us to the flat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless they already have people waiting for us there,” Alex mused. He glanced at Yassen. “Which we’ve only seen half of K-Unit. I was wondering why it was taking the other two so long to show up. They’re probably waiting for us there. It’s just so odd. I thought they’re here to watch us and low-grade harass me into going back to London. This is just a strange way to go about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” Yassen looked back at his hands before tucking his iPod away. “What were we discussing again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got an idea. Just follow my lead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as the train stopped at their station, Alex grabbed Yassen’s arm again and steered him off the train. The brownie was definitely hitting in waves-- even discussing their followers for more than thirty seconds at a time appeared to be beyond Yassen’s retention at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. Alex really wanted to be home already by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The paranoia was only just hitting Yassen significantly, if Alex’s gauge of the contract killer’s suddenly stiff features and darting eyes were anything to go by. Probably devoting the majority of his internal energy into appearing normal. Hopefully, it would keep him busy and out of trouble, not that Alex had high hopes for the evening. Ideally, they’d be back at the flat, watching telly and eating whatever the hell Yassen had managed to procure, but that was seeming more and more like a distant fantasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time to figure out how to evade their two followers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex really didn’t want to drag the high, paranoid assassin around while he dealt with K-unit but now he realized he didn’t have a choice. Yassen wasn’t exactly capable of subterfuge at the moment, which would be enough of a handicap on its own. It couldn’t be nearly as bad as leaving him unattended, though: Alex had no doubt if he sat the man somewhere and told him to wait, he’d wander off in a heartbeat and steal a zeppelin to crash into a hospital or a news station or something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just that kind of night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grimacing, Alex led them both towards a side hallway where the entrance to the metro’s bathrooms were tucked into a small tiled alcove. He pressed them both against the far edge and yanked his Bubble 07 gum out of his pocket, breaking off a tiny corner of it and chewing it delicately between his molars. Damn. He’d been hoping the alcove would be deeper or offer a better place to hide. They were too visible, even if partially concealed by shadow, so Alex was going to have to rely on his luck and hope they hurried into the men’s room without much caution. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, that was probably asking a lot after chasing them with a tank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen leaned towards him, having obviously caught on to the sneaking around bit. “What are we doing?” he asked in a low voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shushed him, listening and chewing. If Ben was smart, he’d put just a bit of distance between them. Hang back before confronting them or calling for support, if that was their aim. Maybe not even follow them in. “I’m going to lock them in,” he hissed, jerking his head at the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded very seriously and set his grocery bag down. How had he still managed to hold onto that damn bag when he couldn’t even keep track of his own damn face? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ugh. It didn’t matter. Alex doubted he’d remember in a moment what they’d been talking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--trapped in there with him,” Wolf said, voice growing only slightly louder. “He’s probably the type to kill us first and ask questions later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a public toilet,” Ben countered. “And this station isn’t nearly as deserted as that street was. He won’t do anything right away and we’ll have a chance to explain if we play our cards right. Just follow my lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to get shot,” Wolf bit out, voice growing steadily closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If he were armed, why didn’t he shoot us before? Why chase us with a tank of all things--” Ben halted as he rounded the corner, spotting Yassen and Alex. He halted two steps from stepping through the doorway, Wolf on his heels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. He’d needed them to step inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex. Wait, we need to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sober, high, or dead, Yassen could be counted on to default to combat. He swept his left leg in a neat arc, whip kicking Wolf in the hip hard enough to send him staggering backwards into Fox. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both slumped to the side, though Fox got his arms up and grabbed the door, managing to brace himself from falling backwards and preparing to counterstrike. There just wasn’t time: the assassin flowed through moves without pausing, years of experience manifesting in an economy of movement that was hard to rival. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stepped forward and drove an elbow into Wolf’s nose before shifting his weight just enough to Spartan kick Fox the rest of the way through the door, pivoting to shove a now stunned Wolf in after him. Sweeping the doorstop up, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it with his whole body weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud boom sounded as one of the two operatives on the other side rammed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen flopped his head to the side to look at Alex. “Was this the plan? I can’t remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding vigorously, Alex yanked out the tiny piece of gum from his mouth and shoved it into the keyhole of the lock. The gum began expanding almost immediately, quickly growing far larger than its original size-- a fact Alex had carefully considered when he’d picked such a small piece. He didn’t want to break the lock so much as jam it in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grabbed Yassen’s arm and took off again, hurrying through the station at a moderate jog. “Almost there,” he said, glancing back at the man. Yassen seemed spacey, but otherwise alert as he glanced around the beautiful station with a stiff ‘not-high’ expression, otherwise content to let Alex pick the direction. Somehow he’d grabbed the damn snack bag. “Almost home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen chuckled quietly to himself as Alex navigated them down a small paved path that ran between apartment buildings and offered foot access while remaining largely sheltered from the road. It was a bit of a longer route than taking the main street, but that didn’t seem like much reason to worry since Alex probably wanted a good look at any possible surveillance before they made a dash for the building. Yassen didn’t mind much of anything, at the moment. Something within him had shifted and suddenly the world was bright and engaging and not very stressful at all. A little clearer, too. In fact, should he be inclined to find it any one way, it might be entertaining or funny. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So this was why Alex liked drugs. It made much more sense now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy really must be impatient to get home. Every time Yassen blinked, it seemed like Alex had increased his speed. Impressive, for one with such short legs. Part of him knew he should speed up himself to match the kid’s pace, but Yassen really liked his current one, though he knew he shouldn’t lose track of Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Struck by a sudden stroke of genius, Yassen hooked his forefinger into the little loop created by Alex’s clumsy bun and tugged. The boy yelped and leaned back, forced to slow or suffer a yank. He twisted slightly to give Yassen an irritated glare as the man burst out laughing. “Look, little Alex. Your head has a handle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quit it,” Alex huffed, swatting at Yassen’s hand until the older man got distracted looking around again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walking detour wasn’t unwelcome in and of itself to Yassen; this was actually a part of the neighborhood that he’d never really strolled through before, since he tended to stick to the main street with it’s restaurants and easy access to the metro. It was nice back here. Twinkle lights wrapped around some of the trees, neatly trimmed back for winter and giving the place a pleasant sparkle. Gated courtyards for nearby apartment complexes surrounded them, some offering small play structures for children now empty and silent and dusted in snow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d researched all the areas nearby shortly after moving in and signing the contract within Scorpia’s files, of course. This might not be a job, but the subject of their permanence had made it a bigger concern that he have as much information on their environment as possible. Given the opportunity, he’d even asked Dima in passing what illicit business moved in the area. Obviously, it paid to be aware of the going ons in one’s own backyard--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stopped short at the top of a set of stairs that would lead them onto the street that ran behind the apartment complex across from theirs. He pulled out his iPod. “Shit. That’s them. I was hoping they’d be in a car or something. I could have locked them in with my gum too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen followed his gaze. The final two SAS men were standing on the sidewalk, near a streetlamp. Both of them were obviously shivering and the way they shifted on their feet suggested they’d been out here for some time and were getting tired. Of course, there was a certain jumpiness to them as well, an alertness of one warned of trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Come to think of it, the two stuck in the restroom probably had cell phones on them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d have to find another way. The apartment did have a back vendor entrance that was mainly used by maintenance vehicles, but not only was it likely shut for the night, residents didn’t have access to it in the first place. The security features were decent on it too. Controlled exits and entrances were one of the initial draws of the place for Yassen. No, if they wanted to sneak in, they’d have to go through the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed and crossed his arms. “I’m going to have to use the gum again, somehow. Find something to disturb that’s big enough that they check it out while we make a run for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” Yassen shook his head peaceably. Alex really was quite clever, he just lacked experience when it came to some of these things. It was fine. He did decently on his own and would hopefully grow up into a normal adult before having lots of experience mattered. “It’s a good instinct, but I don’t think it will work. It’ll be an obvious distraction attempt, which means they won’t look into it unless they have to. They’ve been warned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I gathered as much.” Alex glanced at him consideringly. “And it’s probably not a great idea to leave a string of property damage that leads back to our flat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You make a wonderful point,” Yassen agreed, patting his shoulder with his free hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex fidgeted, eyes still on the building. “I can’t believe they’re just standing there. They’re not even trying to hide. They look so strange and suspicious, just staring openly at our apartment building like it might explode at any minute. Is it supposed to intimidate us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “Perhaps. If anything, they’ve probably made our night security nervous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait.” Alex blinked. “Our building has guards. Do you think we can get them to ask K-unit to leave so we can sneak in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not a bad idea,” Yassen assured him. “But I doubt they can. They’re not on the property and technically not causing trouble. A police drive by can be requested, but unless they make a scene or disturb the peace in some manner--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It came to him suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen started walking, gesturing Alex to wait where he was. The boy didn’t, brows furrowing suddenly as Yassen began moving. Of course. Alex really needed to work on his listening skills. Maybe he just needed something to keep him occupied in case he got bored. Childcare really was a full time job. “Call the apartment and complain. See if they’ve already been approached by security. If they have, they’ll call the police to take a look once a resident gets upset. We want to expedite this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a dubious look. “What’s your plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen burst out in a peal of laughter in lieu of a proper answer. He wasn’t entirely sure why, since this was a fairly standard tactic of distraction. It had just taken him awhile to realize it was viable at this time of night in their neighborhood. Soldiers probably didn’t have the specific training to deflect it the way spies would, and K-unit’s only spy was locked in a metro bathroom at the moment, but that wasn’t funny in itself per se. Everything did feel awfully amusing, though. Maybe it would be fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes. The night felt very fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed and grimaced, obviously giving up on getting an answer. He pulled out his phone and dialed the front desk. “Okay. I guess it can’t hurt. I’ll do it now-- just try to breathe, Yassen.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex watched dubiously as Yassen led him another block and a half away from their apartment, into a slightly less affluent street in the neighborhood. A few businesses were open here still-- a 24 hour convenience store, an internet cafe, a small bar, and a massage parlor were the most obviously lit from the interiors. People hung around the sidewalks in small groups, bundled from the cold and smoking, for the most part. Everyone not addicted to nicotine had the sense to stay inside, apparently. It was a quarter to nine, so night life hadn’t quite gotten into swing but most normal business had concluded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was Yassen planning? Alex watched him out of the corner of his eye. The man was obviously making an effort to compose himself after his sudden bout of laughter. At least he was getting to enjoy some of his high and would hopefully remain this way for the rest of it, rather than return to his previous paranoia. While he was clearly getting a little better at stringing together thoughts for more than a minute at a time, Alex didn’t want to rely on the man’s planning so soon-- it was pretty much a given he was still far too high to be of much help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopefully, whatever he was planning was something harmless and would keep him busy while Alex tried to come up with a plan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting the cops to distract the men would be a decent idea (maybe even get the arses arrested and deported before they could even start their mission properly, wouldn’t that just show them), but here Alex was at a loss. He could phone the police directly with something completely made up, but building security was already watching the two SAS men and possibly might ruin any police action before it began. As probably the only resident to complain, Alex’s name would come up fast and then he’d have to explain why he’d lied. A distraction a la Smithers’ gadgets would be pretty obvious and he couldn’t figure out a way to force them to respond without attacking them directly. Again, security’s attention would not work in his favor if--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s brain stuttered to a halt as Yassen strolled into the massage parlor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait. What?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the tinkling of the bells, the woman behind the desk glanced up at them, gesturing to the clock and snapping something in Russian, too fast and irritable for Alex to accurately make out the distinct sounds. Her gist was clear: obviously they were closing in a few minutes and uninterested in new patrons for the night. Alex glanced around, feeling his eyebrows climb his forehead. It was a pretty standard looking place with pale green and blue walls, cheap rock and water features, and the heavy scent of incense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The staff photos of what appeared to be entirely young female employees is what really made him on edge.That, and the way the woman took one look at Alex, and said something angrily and gestured for them to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obviously, this was no place for a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, no. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tatiana wrapped her fur coat closer around her body and glanced over at her new Big Sister, Veronika. She’d only been on the job for four weeks, but Veronika had been working for Milana for two years and had already taught her more than her previous Big Sister, who had gotten her Dental Hygienist certification and quit unexpectedly. So far, Tati’s time at the parlor had been fine overall: the clients weren’t exactly the best, but Milana didn’t put up with much nonsense from them. The pay and hours weren’t terrible either and the demands of the clients fairly reasonable, if occasionally specific. She’d heard of worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Veronika noticed her look. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure this job is legitimate?” Tati asked her, as they crossed the street again. “It’s just that Milana hasn’t sprung a client on me this late and at the last minute before. I have a test in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Veronika gave an annoyed sigh. “It’s legit, it’s just a pain. This happens sometimes. Some rich businessman had clients stop in Moscow at the last minute and wants us to show them a good time. Milana told him to fuck off, but he paid double rates for four hours in cash upfront and told her we can go in one hour if we find them distateful. They’re foreigners, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Tati frowned. “Are we taking them back to the main parlor or the basement?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basement’s the plan, unless they suggest the normal rooms. We’ll need to call ahead so they can prep those for us if they do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Tati sighed. “Another BDSM thing. What is it with all these businessmen and BDSM? I’m so sick of having to make my best scared face and pretend to plead. It’s degrading. I’m going to be a nurse in three years. If I ever encounter one of these assholes on a gurney, I’m going to make sure they remember who the fuck I am and understand which one of us is in charge now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Veronika chuckled and shifted her purse on her elbow. It really was an elegant white thing. Tati wished she could save up enough for one as nice. “Well, practice your mean face, because these gentlemen like it the other way around, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that odd. You just haven’t been here long enough, I guess. These acting jobs can be fun, if a little draining, and they pay much better.” Veronika shrugged. “Apparently, these two are really into the idea of strong women approaching and dominating them. Mr. Moneybags said to be as aggressive as we’re comfortable with, so long as we give them the full fantasy of being so attracted to them just by walking past that we won’t take no for an answer until they come away with us. I’ve done similar at my job before, just not on the street.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tati bit her lip, stopping as she realized she was probably smearing her lipstick all over her teeth. Fumbling with her own purse, she dug out a mirror to check. “I’ve never acted out anything like that. One man wanted me to talk like a schoolteacher, but I don’t think that’s the same thing. What do I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her Big Sister puffed out her chest a little. “Just follow my lead. I took acting classes for years, you know. Even got a lead role in two commercials.” She waved a well manicured hand. “Just act cross and displeased, as though he is a misbehaving puppy. It sounds a little ridiculous and cliche, but it’s worked fine for me. These types are mostly the same; they want to feel both desired and controlled. Come on strong and don’t take no for an answer. It’s annoying, but saying no and having you push is half the fun for them.” Veronika halted and glanced around. They were about a block away from where they were told to retrieve the clients. “Here. I’ll show you a trick. Quickly now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tati winced as a hand reached for her hair. “Don’t muss the curls, I just fixed them before we left--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t, I won’t,” Veronika assured her, rolling her eyes and grabbing a small fist full at the base behind her ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow, stop it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be such a baby, Tati, it doesn’t hurt that bad. That’s the point. Now, here, do me.” Veronika carefully picked out a few strands of her own hair for Tati to grasp. “Perfect. Do that if they argue with you. Every client I’ve used it on loves it. No marks for the wife to find. Just remember, you’re the boss. Saying no to you isn’t an option. Now let’s go. Remember, they’re foreigners, so with any luck they’ll do something rude at the parlor in front of Milana, get tossed out early, and we’ll get paid for the whole night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, god,” Tati responded with a scowl. “It’s such an important test….”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Chapter 47</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Yassen's high as balls adventure continues. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you,” Alex hissed, as he dragged Yassen down the street to cross at the nearest light. Anything to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Of course, that was much easier with the commotion in front of their apartment. Even with Yassen openly convulsing in laughter, no one so much as glanced at them as they crossed within thirty feet of the mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cross as he was, Alex couldn’t help but choke back a laugh himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Snake and Eagle had been prepared to encounter two very provocatively dressed Moscow prostitutes at this hour, it might have gone a bit better for them. Having zero context meant the men had zero warning: as far as the teen could tell, they had barely glanced at the female pedestrians as they’d approached, obviously still fixated on the gleaming flat ahead of them. Even from his and Yassen’s back sidewalk vantage point, Alex could sense Snake’s shock as his arse was grabbed and his hair pulled in almost the same second, before the SAS medic shoved the girl off and rounded on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you steaming?” he bellowed at the now wilting lady in a fur coat. “Woman, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>married!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle did a touch better, spinning round and raising his arms to try and non violently ward off his own unexpected assault. Alex couldn’t hear what he was saying-- though Yassen could, he’d pulled out his iPod with a gleeful cackle as soon as he’d spotted the women approaching-- but whatever it was, it didn’t seem to deter the petite dark haired woman in the least. She strode forward and grabbed his chin, slapping him across the face as he tried to remove her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His startled shove hardly seemed to do much more than stagger her back a foot, but suddenly things got a lot more violent. And loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The perfect time for a polizia vehicle with its lights off to drive by, summoned by their apartment’s security team’s request. It came to an abrupt halt as two uniformed men got out, snapping orders in Russian that went wholeheartedly ignored by the women, as both SAS men tried to back up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distraction in full force, he turned to Yassen, only to realize that the man was hunched over. Laughing too hard to move forward under his own power. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is amazing,” Yassen managed to wheeze out as Alex hustled him to their building’s entrance. He was still gripping his iPod and staring openly at the group as they passed-- though to be fair, so were the half dozen passerbys Alex hadn’t noticed in the area until they were all suddenly dramatic spectators to a lot of confused, angry shouting. “I know they don’t have any spy training, but I don’t think they speak </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>Russian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shoving open the glass entrance door and pushing Yassen through, Alex himself was torn. On the one hand, K-unit were such prats to follow him to Moscow intending to both pester him into going back to England or finding Yassen unfit. Orders or no order-- utter </span>
  <em>
    <span>prats</span>
  </em>
  <span>. On the other, his British upbringing had endowed him with the superhuman ability to suffer mortification through visual osmosis; watching Eagle get smacked in the head with a white purse by a tiny woman in six inch heels inspired equal parts horror as it did hilarity. A giggle erupted past his lips as he dragged Yassen past the thoroughly engrossed late night staff watching through the windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, it was mostly hilarious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you,” Alex said again, depositing Yassen’s grip on the railing of the elevator and stabbing the button for their floor. His outrage cracked again as he erupted into snickers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors dinged shut in front of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen slumped against the wall and tried to suck in air, thoroughly winded. Tears had actually leaked from the corners of his eyes. Alex would be tempted to take a picture if he wasn’t so determined to avoid any more evidence of this damn night. “That turned out better than I expected. Sorting out the mistake was supposed to be the main distraction. I didn't think it would escalate beyond being accused of soliciting prostitution when the police came,” the contract killer said, devolving into chuckles again. One earbud was still in his ear, which he seemed to be listening to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a dry look. “We’ll have angry neighbors, you know. That parlor isn’t far from here and if those girls get picked up--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll be fine. Their boss pays the police to not arrest them and I paid them double for some late night roleplaying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well that sounded shady as hell. Alex almost didn’t want to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Awful curiosity won out. “What did you tell them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just that our two friends wanted to experience the domineering pleasures of some local women,” Yassen managed to get out, even sounding half innocent. He broke down in peals of laughter again. “It just popped into my head when I got there. I only said it so they wouldn’t leave right away when the men turned them down the first time. I didn’t think they’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> tenacious.”</span>
</p><p><span>Alex’s mouth dropped open. “Domineering? Oh, my god, Yassen. How did you not expect</span> <span>telling them</span><em><span> to act like dominatrixes to escalate</span></em><span>?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say to slap them, but I didn’t not say they couldn’t either.” At Alex’s pointed look, he spread his arms. “It was late and the woman at the desk didn’t like me, so to get them to take the job I specifically said the girls should only go as far as they were comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex struggled to keep a straight face. Lost. Giggled. “I’d say one of them felt extremely comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen leaned against the wall, throwing his hand over his eyes. “Bozhe ty moy. That was worth every kopek. They looked so scared and confused. Not the girls, of course-- the soldiers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake’s horrified body language flitted across his mind. Alex choked. “That was horrid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was,” Yassen agreed easily as the doors opened on their floor and he followed Alex to their apartment door. As soon as they were inside, he staggered directly to the couch and face planted into the cushions-- one arm thrown out to protect the plastic grocery bag anchored in the crook of his elbow, that had somehow, impossibly survived the night without tearing or getting lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex locked up and followed him, exhausted and amused. Christ. “How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen laughed in response. At least he’d made it back to the fun part of being stoned out of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take it,” Alex muttered, knowing full well that the assassin would be very different in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was going to be a fun conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed the remote and turned on the telly, not bothering to pick a decent channel since the odds Yassen would pay attention to it were minimal anyway. Dropping it near Yassen’s head, he hightailed it to his room. His hands were freezing and he was very, very ready for a hot shower and pajamas.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Alex returned fifteen minutes later, hair dripping and his warmest sleeping clothes obtained, the tv was off and the room dark. He slowed, glancing around with furrowed brows. The shades had been pulled shut, cutting off the wide expanse of windows that gave them a great city view beyond the balcony. Even the TV had been switched off, leaving only his open bedroom behind him as the main source of light in the room. The couch where he’d left Yassen to relax was empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard the sound of furniture shifting in the entrance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was someone breaking in?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alarmed, he hurried over, only to find Yassen creating a hasty barricade out of the bench, shoe rack, and wheelchair Alex had been too apathetic to move to the hall closet when he’d stopped using it. Alex squinted, seeing the perfectly locked and quite heavy front door deadbolted from here. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll come tonight,” Yassen ground out. “We have to be ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?” Alex stared at him, before his foot nudged something. He looked down and found a half empty jar of… pickled something. He glanced at the couch suddenly, spotting the half open wrappers of a few other snacks the man must have started in on while he was showering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. He’d forgotten about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never mind,” Alex said, before Yassen could respond. “Quick question. When you ate that pot brownie before--” Alex helpfully pointed to the silver tray still on the counter, in case there was any doubt to what he was referring. “--you didn’t happen to do it on an empty stomach, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? I guess.” Yassen dragged his hands through his short hair without turning around, studying his work with obvious unhappiness. For being inebriated as fuck, Yassen’s barricading skills were still rock solid as far as Alex could tell. A tiny niggle of envy erupted in him as Yassen went back to trying to jam the bench under the doorknob. “Just-- just-- go watch television. I have to fix this before they come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stepped forward slowly. “Relax. They’re only going to pester us and the concierge won’t let them up without calling. They weren’t going to try to come to our flat directly anyway. Especially now. I’m confident K-unit will be quite busy for the rest of the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is bad,” Yassen snapped, as though he didn’t hear him. “I’m such an idiot. I left so much evidence. So many places.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex put his hand on Yassen’s arm, trying to get his full attention and halt the barricade progress. “It’s fine. The incendiary in the keychain should have scorched all our DNA in the tank. Beyond that, we just got groceries and took the tube home. Normal stuff, even if anyone noticed we were acting strange.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head, jaw set and eyes darting. It spiked his own anxiety. Tension dragged Yassen’s limbs closer to his body, while thinly controlled nervous energy seemed to radiate off the man like steam. “No, this is a surveillance state. There’s loads of cameras between here and the store. Probably by the museum. The park. I didn’t think and now they’ll know that I’m high. I won’t let them in. They’ll come--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so...” Alex said, glancing back down at the scattered snack remains. The night was definitely determined to steamroll them. “It’s hardly been an hour since we ditched the tank. Two, since you left the apartment. K-unit never saw us get inside the tank and Vankin can handle the police.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vankin.” Yassen practically breathed the name as his fingers dug out one of his cell phones from his pocket. It was the flip phone he used mainly for his SVR business and contacting the school. “I need to call him right now--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gently pried the phone from his hands. “You need to definitely not. I’ll do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s important this be handled--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it is, but you’re about to be even more high, Yassen. Sort of. Just, more of the not-fun parts anyway.” Alex let out a half hiss, wondering exactly how much Yassen understood at the moment. The assassin was still half twisting to look over his shoulder and glare at the door every few seconds. Alex decided to err on the side of optimism. “Edibles can do unexpected things while digesting. It’s a stomach acid thing. What you ate and when matters. Daniil explained it to me this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s Daniil?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of Dima’s bartenders. Anyway, if you eat one on an empty stomach, the THC hits quicker but it’s supposed to be steady. I mean, steady-ish. All that running probably messed yours about, which is why your high kept changing, but another thing you can do to make it unpredictable is to eat suddenly.” Alex flicked his eyes back down at the jar of… vinegar watermelon. Gross. “It pushes the brownie further into your stomach acid, or something like that. That’s why you got paranoid again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen furrowed his brows for only a split second, before shaking his head and reaching to retrieve the phone. There was something odd about the way he spoke, some weird modulation in his breathing that made it sound rushed. This was so bizarre: Alex was used to the man’s unshakable calm, even under gunfire. “No. Perhaps I feel different, but that’s not the same as making it up--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ex-spy got it suddenly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” Alex said, clamping his hands around both Yassen’s fingers and the phone, forcing Yassen to look at his face while Alex brushed up against the pulse point in his wrist. Yassen’s heart rate was almost too fast to count, not that Alex bothered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trust Yassen to get angry-stressed instead of despair-stressed the way Alex did. He would have figured it out sooner otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex chewed on his bottom lip for a long second. Words would be important right now. “You’re not making it up. I know you’re not. What you are worrying about is real, but you’re--” Alex paused, not wanting to say ‘overreacting’. He despised the term and suspected Yassen would hate it just as much. “--assigning it more stress and energy than it needs. Trust me, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled, but there was no anger in it anymore-- only a weary sort of dread. He tried to take the phone from Alex’s hands again, but didn’t seem willing to pry the boy’s fingers away. If anything, he seemed more anxious. “Alex, this is what I do. I assess threats and--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re having a panic attack,” Alex blurted out. Shit. He’d meant to say it more calmly than that. At least Yassen paused. He took a quick breath and smoothed out his tone. “Weed gives some people panic attacks and you’ve taken too much. Far too much. It’s fine. I’m an expert at these. We just have to wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t wait, little Alex, there’s already been so much time and there’s so much for them to find proving that I’m really unfit--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not,” Alex said automatically, unable to conceal his surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Interesting. So that had been something Yassen had considered before K-unit had arrived then-- he certainly hadn’t said anything to the man about it being their secondary goal. That was all part of the conversation they needed to have tomorrow which he was beginning to think would be a cakewalk compared to this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer shook his head. “I know I am, but I can’t help you if--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “You’re perfectly fit, Yassen. No one else comes close. You’re just high right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was getting easier to handle this, now that he understood what was happening. His own unease beginning to abate, Alex took a deep breath and straightened. He hadn’t realized he’d also begun tensing up the longer he’d listened. Everything would be fine. Yassen hadn’t suddenly had a nervous breakdown-- he was just having a panic attack. A chemically induced one. He’d be fine by tomorrow after a shitty today. Alex would get chewed out for a lot of things, least of all not labeling his poison of choice and lying about being at the store, but he’d happily take that over this angry-anxious wreck of a man with melting ice eyes and rigid lines of terror locking his jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head. “No, Yassen. Even if we left ample evidence of what we did, no one will come tonight-- if they even come at all. As if the Moscow police department is going to do shit to help MI6. As if they could use any evidence in court even if they find a way to steal it. If this is going to be a problem, it’ll be weeks from now and you’ll feel much better by then and we can plan for that. It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head, releasing Alex’s hands and abandoning his efforts to obtain the phone. “That’s why I have to fix it now, Alex, it’ll just get worse. It took so much work to get us set up in Moscow and in one night I’ve ruined everything. Just let me fix it--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex studied him, still a bit unnerved to see the man like this. Yassen was clearly tumbling down the panic attack rabbit hole-- Alex hadn’t lied, and he knew it was positively awful and almost impossible to ignore or talk yourself out of. Logical argument was helping him only a little, but Alex knew better than to assume that it would solve it. He kicked himself mentally. Rational discussion might be how Yassen changed his mind normally, but in this instance, he was going to have to deal with the man’s feelings and frenzied brain directly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Alex’s personal experience at being crazy was coming in handy. With his training, Yassen himself knew a few tricks to keep himself under control, but he probably couldn’t actually deploy those with his mind so scattered, if he could even recognize the situation as requiring them in the first place. Really, Alex just had to help Yassen go through the motions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not your turn to look after us right now. It’s mine,” Alex said firmly, shoving the phone in his sweatpant’s pocket and grabbing Yassen by the elbow before he could turn back to his barricade. As soon as he could, he grabbed his other arm and met his eyes. “Come here. Do my box breathing with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex started counting over Yassen, feeling stupid given the frustrated look the man gave him and his subsequent attempt to pull away. Alex tightened his grip and made a point of timing his chest’s rise and fall until eventually Yassen reluctantly humored him. He still wasn’t breathing along at first. When he did over a minute later, it was mostly an involuntary response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. Good. Alex kept counting, casting about for his next move. Normally, when it was his turn to keep an eye on the both of them, Yassen was just drunk and sulking. The cure for that was to offer him space and time, while Alex’s responsibilities mainly entailed remaining alert and reminding Yassen to hydrate in advance of a hangover. Some part of him doubted it would be that easy now; the box breathing seemed to be helping, but Alex suspected this panic response might last the entire duration of his high. That could be hours. Days even. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was he supposed to do about that? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex had barely figured out how to calm himself down reliably, but Yassen didn’t have anything he really did to relax, apart from smoking and drinking. The latter of which would be like pouring vodka (literally) on an open bonfire. A metaphorical molotov cocktail. Actually-- almost certainly a real one. Alex didn’t doubt that with Yassen this stressed and wary of attack, any gifts of liquor would be converted into improvised weapons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would just have to take some things from his own playbook and figure out the rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Alex said, checking Yassen’s wrist a second time, reassured to find the man’s pulse was less hammery. Yassen loved plans. And to-do lists. He’d start there. “Now that your heart rate isn’t like a Skrillex bassline--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of the artists I listen to that you hate. Anyway, now that’s taken care of, I’m going to call Vankin while you go have a smoke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s eyes creased. He shook his head, jerking a sharp hand at the balcony door. “I can’t. They’ll be watching and they’ll see that I’m high.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So go smoke in your bedroom, then,” Alex told him, dragging him over to it before darting into the kitchen to grab a half finished pack of smokes that he’d spotted on the counter closest to the balcony. Ugh. The counter surfaces were getting gross again; Alex really needed to find time to clean. Another problem for Future Alex. Digging through one of the kitchen drawers, he retrieved a lighter and gave both to the older man. “You only have until I’m done with the call, so you’d better smoke as much as you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared dubiously at the pack of cigarettes, before glancing between the front door, Alex, and the pack again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one is coming. Go smoke. We’ll pay the fine from the landlord and I promise not to get asthma,” Alex assured him, rolling his eyes. “One time won’t hurt. Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Yassen had shut the door, Alex yanked out the cell phone and found Vankin on the contacts list. The man picked up on the second ring, not that Alex gave him a chance to speak. “Listen, Vankin, it’s Alex. We’ve got a problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin’s voice was thick with annoyance. “I’ll call you back tomorrow. I’m in the middle of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it was best just to rip off the bandaid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I accidentally drugged Yassen and he got so high that he stole a tank and drove it through a park downtown while trying to run over certain members of the British SAS,” Alex said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Plus some other stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, he had the complete attention of their handler. “Did he get them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Alex scowled and folded his arms. “After he hit the side of the children’s museum, he got the tank stuck on a fountain and I talked him into running. I incendiary-bombed the interior to get rid of as much physical evidence as I could--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin’s voice flattened. “Where did you get an incendiary bomb?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not important,” Alex hedged, starting to pace back and forth along the length of the kitchen. Trust a government type to get hung up on the wrong bloody questions at a time like this. “The SAS is who MI6 has sent to bother me, but I overheard them saying their plan is to also find evidence proving Yassen is a danger to me or unfit. We probably passed dozens of cameras tonight between the grocery store, museum, park, and metro that can prove just that. It's not his fault, though! He really didn’t mean to get high. You have to get rid of the footage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Put Yassen on the phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t,” Alex snapped. He decided to exaggerate a little. The last thing he needed was Vankin riling Yassen’s paranoia. “He just barely got done telling me how weird hands are and that his face was melting. Besides, you need to move fast on this. Those tapes are exactly what MI6 is looking for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still need to talk to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not happening. I only just got him to stop freaking out and building barricades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin groaned over the phone. Suddenly there was rustling. “Tell me everything that happened. Addresses, timelines. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “So, I obtained some very potent pot brownies from a source that shall go unidentified and left them in the kitchen without labeling them…”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. Chapter 48</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen stared at his lit cigarette, unable to really muster the willpower to take another drag on it. The first puff was usually heaven. Despite feeling the nicotine hit his system in a cool rush, it quickly became lost in the growing noise of… well everything. His eyes locked on the carpet, heart hammering as though a hydraulic jack was trying to breach his breastbone from within. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d already drawn the shades on the small window in the corner of his room and done another security sweep of his room. Twice, actually. It all came up clean, but that didn’t help him much. The persistent feeling of forgetting something critical was on the tip of his mind, real or imagined. On some level he knew he couldn’t trust himself right now, but he had no other choice even if his odds of successfully navigating the situation were terrible. There were just so many pieces to track and he had so much less attention to give them than normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this even the first time he’d thought this exact thought since coming in the room?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pressed his palm to his forehead and dug his fingers into his skin, hoping that the pain would clear his thoughts. It didn’t help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every instinct within him screamed at him that they were coming, that everything was about to crash and catch fire. There had to be a way to strike first. Actually, Yassen kept realizing, again and again and again, there was no one here to fight. No one to pummel for intel. No informant to shoot and plug a leak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a night of awful decisions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His iPhone was in his pocket. Just sitting there. He felt it’s weight pulling against the fabric. He could easily pull it out and call someone to handle the situation for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fantasy, really. He had so few viable moves at the moment, not that he was confident he could make any. There was a difference between knowing his carefully constructed life in Moscow was about to come crashing down around them and being aware that his current state would allow him to do anything about it. Not that he was confident that there was anything to do. He’d barricaded them in, maybe bought them some time (time was still so strange, shrinking and inflating and--), but there was no other support he could summon. Vankin was being called right this second as it was, and as much as Yassen wanted to be on the call and make sure all of the relevant details were conveyed and manage the dissemination of less beneficial information about their night, he knew Alex was right-- there was no way he could make that call on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not only was Yassen physically cringing at the mere idea that Vankin would know that he was high (it must be so obvious to anyone who even saw his face, his stupid, blabbermouth face--), a more rational part of his brain was well aware that the man was only so trustworthy anyway. Vankin needed Yassen to give blood, intel, and testimony. Sure, the blood was the most important factor, but Yassen had to still present well on the stand and offer as much reliable information as he could. Vankin would prioritize assisting them with their bizarre personal problems only so much, provided it didn’t cost the agency more than they could discreetly give. If Yassen was identifiably high on a call, that could easily fracture what marginal faith the SVR had in his cooperation being worth what they had already invested. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing inspired emergency contingency moves than the sense that your asset was erratic and unstable. The Scorpia assassin had eliminated key assets mid-operation for less. Yassen had already pressurized his relationship with Vankin in so many ways with his own demands, so how much more would it take before they decided they’d had enough with him and decided to switch tracks to another embarrassment for Kiriyenko’s administration?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>High as he was, Yassen immediately discounted the possibility of calling Scorpia. That would not only be a spectacular waste of time, since the SVR was far better positioned to manage the video security of private and public buildings in Moscow, but it would reveal even more potential weakness to them. Yes, they had a vested interest in maintaining Yassen’s protected status in Moscow and ensuring his demands that Alex remain with him be met, but if there was so much as a hint of an opening, they’d come flooding in to take advantage. To lock down their wayward operative and ensure that this deal with the mafia could not fail. Shackall was playing ball with him because Yassen had a history of being reliable and business-like-- his betrayal so far had been a signal of changed priorities, not of capability. Suddenly getting high and going on a public-facing rampage would very quickly eliminate the remaining risk-tolerance of the current board. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When had his breathing changed? He tried to force it to still, compel it to adhere to the count of four. It worked, somewhat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Calling Dima was out. Yes, he’d probably laugh off the high-on-accident part and yes he’d probably help him, but really there was little the man could do that the SVR couldn’t. Less, even. Besides, then not only would he know that Yassen was high (a bolt of embarrassment flooded him every time he contemplated it and he groaned aloud), but he would remember it every time he asked him for help. Yassen was relying on what collateral remained from their old relationship combined with the reputation of his skills to slowly but surely earn him a trusted place in the man’s inner circle. He absolutely had to not only understand the heart of the mafiya drama that could potentially overturn his armistice with Scorpia, but also be able to influence it should the need arise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, he couldn’t call anyone. Alex was just going to have to handle tonight on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despair nearly swept him away. Of all the times to lose control of the delicate juggling act that made their lives here possible, Yassen just had to do it in such a way that meant Alex had to pick up all of his slack. Instead of coming home and starting on his school work, Alex had spent the night keeping MI6 off of both of their arses and burning through as many of his Smithers gadgets as that took. Not only had the boy been required to make sure Yassen could find his way home in the first place, but he’d also had to run interference almost constantly</span>
  <em>
    <span> and</span>
  </em>
  <span> manage Yassen’s behavior the entire night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfit didn’t even cover it. Dangerously negligent barely scratched the surface. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yesterday, Yassen would have said he was the only available option for Alex to have a decent life, but now he realized that there was no hope. No one could do it, and as it turned out, that count also included Yassen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was just doomed. Only instead of focusing his efforts on at least attempting to save himself, now he got to scramble trying to futilely save Yassen on the way down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no way anyone could see him, but Yassen crouched anyway and buried his face in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was supposed to be the one looking after him, for god’s sake. Now, instead of assisting Alex in whatever way was required to have a hope of him turning out normal and happy and well adjusted, he was actively creating impediments for him. This very moment, Alex should be studying or watching tv or thinking about his school friends and what he wanted to do with his university studies, not relaying Yassen’s stupidity to his handler because Yassen couldn’t even handle a fucking phone call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How did these things keep happening to them? Chaos lurked around every fucking corner. If Yassen couldn’t give him a stable life eventually, what was the point? There’d be no happy future for the boy, no average days of shopping and boring school lessons and meetups with friends or dates with a girlfriend. No general feeling of safety or the ability to truly let go of worry. There’d be no exam jitters and relieved delight opening school acceptance letters, no first day on the job. No pretty wedding to a nice spouse, no family with kids, no weekend house in the country or apartment in St. Petersburg, no career in search and rescue helicoptering--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer squinted at his hands and groaned. Wrong dream? This was about Alex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was such an idiot for stealing that stupid brownie in the first place. He should have never gotten himself into this situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only problem was, he couldn't really see a way out of it either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex skittered around the apartment, collecting half empty jars and packages and shoving them back into the large grocery bag (Shroedinger’s grocery bag, he’d started calling it in his head: theoretically impervious to any and all misfortune despite also encountering it constantly). Dropping his load off in the office, he doubled back for blankets and pillows before tossing them on to the small couch inside. Finally, he grabbed the phone from where he’d left it on the counter before knocking on Yassen’s door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answer, though he did here a sharp series of soft gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shoved open the door, spotting Yassen crouching on the floor, clutching a lit cigarette while he pressed his free palm against his forehead as though he could forcefully compel his brain to still. Ash, a thick line of it that had to have been about half the damn cigarette, had already tumbled to the pale carpet and smoldered out. Something about the way he sucked in air seemed to make it whistle in his throat, adding a strange quality to it that made it seem worse than it was. He wasn’t struggling to breathe, Alex realized, just gasping slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, probably not the wisest idea to send him to smoke during a panic attack. In retrospect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex turned on a lamp and crouched down next to him. “How’s the smoke break coming along?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Face pinched, Yassen shook his head wordlessly.  His breathing smoothed a touch. Perhaps because Alex was there to witness it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, they made such a stubborn pair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it still seem like you’ve just felt the warning rumbles of an avalanche that no one else can sense?” Alex asked him, studying his face carefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A reluctant nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “Yeah, that’s the worst of it. I know it’s really shitty, but I promise this is the hardest part of having a panic attack. It’ll pass eventually.” He paused, half hoping Yassen had something to say to that and knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t. There was nothing he could really do to stop the panic attack for the man, just sort of help him through it. He nudged him gently after a few minutes. “What is it your brain wants you to do right now to feel better? Climb into the ceiling tiles and escape? Hide under a bed? Lash out at your evil twin? Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “All of the above,” he said in a low voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I can help with one of those,” Alex said, straightening and plucking the dead cigarette from Yassen’s hand. He stepped into the man’s adjoining bathroom and tossed the butt at the sink. Maybe he missed-- the majority of the wall was tiled so he didn’t particularly care. He was the one who was going to have to clean it up later. Returning, he reached out his hand to offer to pull him up but Yassen just stared at him. With an eye roll, Alex grabbed Yassen around the shoulders and tried to drag him to his feet. The man was too damn heavy. Alex grunted and yanked, unable to do more than make the man rock on his heels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop that.” The man glanced back at the door, then to Alex. He shook him off. “Just go. Watch tv. Study. I have to think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex frowned and crossed his arms, straightening to glare down at him. “Don’t you dare. I’ve come up with a new rule for the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hissed through his teeth softly and looked away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The most important rule of the night is that you don’t get to think about anything.” Alex sighed and knelt down next to him on the carpet. “Seriously. Don’t. Don’t make any decisions. Don’t do anything, don’t think about what you’re going to do tomorrow. You can’t trust your brain right now. This is the worst time to.” Alex took a deep breath. Yassen was looking away from him, but Alex had to get him to understand. He’d played this game too many times to just sit here and watch Yassen lose it too. “Trust me, I know. This is basically how everything felt when I ran away in Texas and that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>objectively the dumbest fucking thing I could have done</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Lucky for you, you just have to wait to sober up for it to go away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen opened his mouth, obviously intending to argue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grabbed his hand, unable to conceal the pleading note in his voice. Hopefully Yassen wouldn’t really notice. “Please don’t. Panic-brain is an asshole. It takes real things and makes them a hundred times bigger and uncertain than they are, which shouldn’t matter because it also tells you you’re doomed no matter what you do. It should mean you’re allowed to give up, but somehow it just keeps making it worse and even more your fault. This feeling you’ve got now? It bleeds into everything you think about. Everything, even the things you know are fine or make you happy normally. That should be the first clue that it’s not right, that you can’t measure things properly at all right now, but it’s sneakier than that and it convinces you that you’re thinking more clearly than ever before so the only thing you can do to fight this is to not think about stuff until it passes. Think about everything all you want tomorrow, make loads of decisions then, but please, please, don’t let yourself do any of that now. You will drown and it will be for nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared at him, eyes riveted to his face. Alex expected him to tell him to fuck off any second now, but he didn’t, hand still warm in Alex’s. “Fine. What else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex exhaled slowly, still searching Yassen’s face. There was no hint of active deceit, just anxiety and dread and worry and that blankness that meant he was trying to handle things without upsetting Alex any more than he absolutely had to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Close enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just keep your mind off it whenever you can. Come on, Assassin Batman,” Alex said, pulling him towards the door, monumentally relieved when Yassen stood with him. “Let’s retreat to the Batcave and watch the security cameras and eat snacks. That’ll help, yeah? Unless you really did install a trap door that leads to lava pits, at which point this evening is going to get a lot more exciting. Now is the time to confess if you have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tiny flicker of amusement flitted across the other man’s face. Alex decided to count it as another victory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked as Alex shoved him gently towards the small couch set off to the side of the desk. The blinds had already been drawn, of course, though the warm artificial light of the office was more than enough to show the mounds of blankets and pillows Alex had precariously stacked atop it. He shoved them aside to make room to sit, using the motion to conceal his swallow as Alex set about locking them in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The urgent, persistent sense of doom wrapped around him like a strangler’s embrace, but for Alex’s sake, Yassen was determined to at least appear fine. The boy would likely still pick up on something, though Yassen was resigned to that so long as he didn’t cause the boy any additional stress if he could help it. Obviously, he was too inebriated to conceal his inner state-- and here Yassen had to suppress another flood of shame, because why did he have to get so expressive instead of violent or incoherent or</span>
  <em>
    <span> literally any other acceptable drunk state</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- so he’d just have to minimize it as much as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex had managed to impress upon him one thing that Yassen could remember-- remembering was still hard and his thoughts kept getting interrupted-- and that was that to not do anything tonight. It seemed fitting, because Yassen was currently pretty helpless(-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t think about that, you’ve got to plan and adapt and find some hidden advantage</span>
  </em>
  <span>). There just wasn’t that much he could do, even if he wanted to. The endless miasma of tonight had to end eventually-- yes?-- and when he could focus, he could set about performing triage on his situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t failed-- probably hadn’t ruined everything, though the thought flooded him with dread, because it remained to be seen-- he’d just lost the chance to handle things in the same manner he had for the last few years. Preemptively, mostly. He’d gotten very good at avoiding problems, especially as he’d had to take on a lot more logistical aspects for Scorpia’s clients (it was different than just doing the killing, but the novelty wore off fast because so many criminals were idiots or unreliable or just plain annoying to talk to). Dealing with Alex had been somewhat similar, since a decent number of predictable problems could be outright avoided if Yassen just blindly memorized his signals (like puppies and blankets and strawberry milkshakes), though not with complete accuracy. (Especially if Alex was moody, unexpectedly energetic, or dear god, suffering from low blood sugar) Adapting now was still possible, he’d just have to fall back on the strategies he’d used to rely on more heavily in the past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Namely, twisting arms, destroying evidence, and removing witnesses. It wasn't a failure, per se (even if it one hundred percent felt like a failure and he wanted to smash something), it was more like a temporary breach. Unfortunate, but salvageable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just had to be patient and he hated it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex flicked his nose, ignoring his scowl. “You’ve got your thinking face on. Stop it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen swatted at him. “I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, try.” Alex swiveled the monitor so that they could see it from the vantage point of the couch, before stretching the mouse and the keyboard cables to their limits to drag it over as he sat. The screen showed their entryway, both inside and out. Apart from Yassen’s slap-dash barricade, it was empty-- Yassen’s eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for some sort of threat to emerge but it remained stressfully empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning from his little set up, Alex glanced at Yassen consideringly before grabbing a blanket from the pile and throwing it around the assassin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked, feeling the scratchy white afghan from the couch slide across his arms and head, but didn’t argue. The world was just this strange stage full of things but rather than feeling like the magician preparing for the act, he was quite certain he was just a flummoxed audience member called up under the spotlight for the next trick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he hated other things more so it was probably fine.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a small hum, the boy nodded, burying himself in his own comforter before pulling the snack bag out from beside the couch. “It looks like we’re still out of strawberry ice cream, but we’ll just have to make do. Let’s see what Mr. Doesn’t Have Preferences picked out today. First up is...” Alex pulled out the half eaten jar and studied the label. “Salty fruit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen only allowed his eyes to leave the video feed for a split second. “Pickled watermelon. Won’t eating make things worse again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged. “Panic attacks are the worst thing I know of that can happen on weed and you’re already there. You might as well have something tasty. I’m quite sold on your snacks for dinner idea.” He unscrewed the lid and plucked one of the darkened fruit pieces out of the juice. Sniffed it dubiously. “Is that cayenne?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s better spicy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex took a nibble of the pink fruit, nose wrinkling the more time it spent in his mouth. He gagged. “It tricks you into thinking it will be sweet and then hits you with spicy vinegar. I don’t like food that misleads me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen took the jar from him, adjusting the blanket so he could use his arms without impediment. “You just have an unrefined palette.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your deceit fruit,” the boy grumbled, offering him the rest of his piece and digging through the bag while Yassen popped the remaining chunk in his mouth, rind and all. Flavor spread across his tongue. It was underappreciated perfection, as expected. The boy held up a red tin. “Kippers? Really, Yassen. This is not a snack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” the assassin insisted, digging another chunk of fruit out of the jar on his lap. “And they’re even good for you. Lots of vitamins--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why you have to mix them with other foods,” Alex countered. “They’re too nutritious to stand on their own and be good, that’s why you have to put them on toast or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Actually, that sounded amazing. Yassen turned to him. “Do we have toast?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t buy bread,” Alex pointed out, gesturing to the bag. He paused, then plucked out a plastic wrapped bag that had been awkwardly compressed. “I mean, I don’t think you bought bread…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen started, staring at the smashed bag in dismay. “When did that happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes. “I’m astounded none of the jars shattered. What is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer took the bag and turned it over in his hands. “Plyushka. It’s a pastry. A bit like a sugared donut.” He sighed, then glanced at the tinned fish. Glanced back at the flattened bag. A new possibility emerged. “Maybe they can be toast?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Toasted donuts with kippers? I think you’ve made it back to fun high, Yassen. Shall we test this theory?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen felt his lips thin as he considered the reinforced, heavy door and the double set of deadbolts. He set the plyushka aside. “Perhaps later.” Spotting the now empty jar, he pressed his lips to the rim and swallowed the syrup in a steady stream of gulps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex choked. “That has to be so salty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s perfect. And good for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are going to pickle that brownie,” Alex muttered, before taking a sharp inhale and resuming his digging. “Pickled tomatoes? Kvass?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen just barely managed to hold back a snicker. “Try the kvass. You’ll love it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled and thrust the plastic bottle at him. “I’m not drinking your gross fermented bread water, Yassen. Timofey already tricked me with that one at school. Never again.” Setting aside the bag, he grabbed the mouse and keyboard, splitting the screen so that the video feed only took up half. It was still clearly visible, even as Alex pulled up a second window and began typing. “If I can’t have snacks, I’m demanding YouTube.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. Chapter 49</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! I hope everyone is doing well. I just wanted to drop a quick line out there to thank all of my diligent commenters-- I know I respond at about the same rate as us Americans get stimulus checks, but despite that, I promise you I DO read them the same day I get them, I DO swoon like a Victorian maiden onto the nearest chaise lounge, and I DO re-read them when life feelings wretched and writing feels hard. You guys are the best and I certainly don't tell y'all that often enough.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex flopped backwards onto his pillow pile, munching happily on his biscuit. It had taken a while, but he’d dug his way past Yassen’s appallingly poor snack choices and come up with some winners. The lemon and ginger biscuits he’d found were tasty, if somewhat dry. An acceptable compromise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On screen, a bicyclist toppled over face first into a pile of leaves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen burst into laughter, choking as he struggled not to spray the last swallow of kvass anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The final verdict was in after exhaustively thorough testing: Yassen had only so-so taste in funny Youtube videos. Silly animals did nothing for him, neither did the more ridiculous choices like keyboard cat and a skateboarding bulldog. Autotune anything actively earned a scowl from the man, so Alex quickly ruled that entire category out. Reaction videos were generally a dud and prank videos overall seemed to annoy him. Children doing stupid things was nebulous; Charlie Bit My Finger got only a snort, but children falling over in general seemed to genuinely entertain the man. Standup comedian clips were hit and miss regardless of how witty they actually were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Overwhelmingly, and surprisingly, Yassen’s favorite videos were physical to the point of bordering on slapstick. Whether it was a casual trip on the tennis court or an outright faceplant by a skateboarder trying to flip off the camera, the man burst into laughter almost every single time. Alex had chalked it up to mean-spirited schadenfreude at first, but the longer it went on, the more it seemed wholly unrelated to the level of injury or the physical aptitude of the victim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen just thought it was hilarious to see people fall over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was so basic and unrefined it boggled Alex’s mind. Maybe it was because Yassen was so nimble that it seemed odd to him, these clumsy apes he inhabited the world with; unable to navigate the safe-by-design environment of a children’s bouncy castle without somehow managing to wind up on the ground, thrashing in undignified confusion. Only experiencing the most mild amounts of resentment at the reminder of the man’s superhuman ability to maintain his balance, Alex quickly settled on a channel made up of Funniest Home Videos and FailArmy and settled in for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately for them both, Alex also thought it was funny to watch people faceplant ambitiously, so at long last, a safe overlap had been reached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four hours passed fairly quickly. It only took Yassen about twenty or thirty minutes before eating shifted his high again. Alex was ready to thank whatever capricious god had taken pity on them when Yassen’s next phase took him back to that relaxed, ready to be entertained state. At least now he wasn’t constantly returning his gaze to the security feeds. The man’s high had been all over the place, though in retrospect, a lot more interesting than Alex had bargained for. Not that he’d ever devoted any thought to what a high Yassen would be like to encounter before tonight, but he’d rather suspected Yassen would be the type to space out in front of the TV and eat voraciously. Alex had assumed most people were. The emotional highs and lows were exhausting-- not even considering Yassen’s random impulsiveness ranging from stealing tanks to hiring prostitutes to harass their targets. Thoroughly disenchanted with the night of babysitting, Alex was very, very ready to coast on whatever fumes they had left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christ, the man was a powder-keg. It was so much easier when he was just drunk. Cranky was much simpler to deal with than volatile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Alex thought of the brownies in the kitchen and had to talk himself out of coming up with an excuse to pilfer one for himself. Just a nibble. Just enough to help him relax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoved another biscuit in his mouth, chewing it hard in the hopes it would distract him. There would be time later to take a reality nap. Right now, it was still Yassen’s turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A buzzing jarred his hip. Frowning, Alex glanced up at the clock above the door before he fished out the flip phone he’d confiscated earlier. Vankin again. He’d tried calling about an hour ago, but Alex had missed the call over the sound of the speakers and hadn’t bothered trying to ring him back. Besides being thoroughly not in the mood himself, he didn’t want to remind Yassen of the real world until he was sober enough to deal with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be important, though. He should probably answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex declined the call and turned to Yassen. “It’s almost one and I have to take a leak. Should we pause for a break?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glanced up at the clock in surprise and shrugged. “Sounds fine,” he yawned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlocking the door swiftly, Alex gave the security screens a quick glance before giving Yassen a furtive look. He’d better not say anything. If the contract killer wasn’t already worried about it, Alex certainly didn’t want to suggest the idea he get paranoid and panicky again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he was discreetly locked in the loo, Alex pulled out the phone with a small sigh before hitting dial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Took you long enough,” Vankin snapped in Russian in lieu of a greeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still Alex,” the boy informed him in English, half ready to hang up on the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their SVR handler groaned. “Don’t tell me he’s still high. I’ve been cleaning up this mess all night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” Alex snapped. “He’s had four times too much. At least. We’ll be lucky if he’s sober in the morning. What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You both are ridiculous.” The distant sound of chatter cut off, as though Vankin had stepped into a quieter room. “Do you know how much damage there is? I barely managed to contain the police before they spoke to anyone else about the tank. Are you sure he only had weed tonight? Nothing else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I know, it’s odd. He’s such an excellent drunk driver, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin heaved a massive sigh. Oops. Perhaps Alex should mind his phrasing a bit more. He shot the clock in his bathroom a baleful glance and rubbed his eyes. Maybe Yassen was in the mood for a nap? “I’ll keep that in mind. I need to confirm a few things before I call it a night. First, the SAS men are the only direct witnesses to the tank incident, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t see us climb in it, I don’t think, but I’d say it would be reasonable that they’d assume it was us, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you didn’t speak to anyone at the metro?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. We used a machine to buy our tickets, so it was just Fox and Wolf who saw us when we locked them in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the desk attendant at your apartment is the only other person you spoke to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, on the phone.” Alex sighed. “Yassen was the one who talked to the… massage… boss lady. I guess. Or whatever her official title is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small thread of amusement wound its way into the man’s tired voice. “Do you even know what a brothel madam does?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I do,” Alex grumbled, staring at the floor and pinking. Good thing the other man couldn’t see him. “She manages the other ladies’ schedules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close enough,” Vankin snorted. A car beeped somewhere on the other end of the line. “And no one else spoke with either of you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen bought food before I found him, so he interacted with a cashier, I guess,” Alex said, pacing the length of his small private bathroom. Thank god he’d spent so much time digging around mulishly in the bag for treats he liked. “But his receipt said he paid in cash so there shouldn’t be a proper record.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. At least he had some sense in him, not that I’ll be able to make a great case for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin took in a sharp inhale. “I suppose it’s not exactly information I’m supposed to tell you, but obviously I’m going to have to tell my superiors what led to tonight’s little crisis. They’ve invested a lot of time and effort on the Estrov case. Obviously, if our star witness suddenly develops a drug problem and begins making our intervention in his life public knowledge, that’s going to be a factor in how they evaluate whether or not Yassen’s cooperation does us more harm than good. Drawing attention is bad enough. Unpredictable behavior from him is a confidence killer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Alex pressed his clenched fist to his forehead. “He doesn’t have a drug problem and his behavior isn’t going to be any different than it always is. Vankin, you have to explain the situation to them. It’s just this one time. This was all my--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good luck convincing them of that. I’m sure they’ll take your assurances at face value. Even my word won’t do him much good once my report is complete.” Vankin sighed. “Tonight is not something I particularly want my boss’s boss to think of whenever Yassen’s name is mentioned. Or mine, by extension”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was all his fault. Yassen’s reputation was going to tank beside Alex’s. Despite being Assassin Batman and more than capable of handling almost any situation known to man (including spontaneous tank operation), just being near Alex was destroying his credibility. Oh god. Their security here relied on so many things-- chiefly, the SVR’s willingness to play ball with them. Fuck. Yassen had worked so hard to make all these deals and gridlock them into safety; in the space of one night, Alex had managed to do something stupid and nearly ruin all of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forced his thoughts to steady. Panicking wasn’t going to help anyone and it was Alex’s turn to be mum tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex took in a quick, short breath. “Did you get all of the video evidence?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By some combination of a small miracle and my own sheer competency, yes, I think I have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you tell any of your bosses the full story yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin hesitated. “Not yet. They know there was a situation relating to the tank and that I’m responding to it personally, but I have yet to relay any concrete information. What are you suggesting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That you destroy all the video evidence and lie. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?” Alex resumed his pacing. “From now on,  the story is that I drove a tank across Moscow and damaged a park. Yassen intervened and stopped me before things could go any further, because I only really listen to him. Emphasize that last part, please. That’s why we were seen together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin was quiet for a long few seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It makes more sense, doesn’t it?” Alex demanded, setting his jaw as he glared at his shower curtain. “I’m an unstable drug addict with a history of erratic behavior and property damage. Let’s just say I saw the observation team in Moscow and I got so upset that I did a load of drugs and made a mess. I’ve done far crazier things in the last two years. They don’t even have to read my whole file to believe it. Feel free to paint yourself the hero who got control of the flow of the information before anyone could find out about it, just make sure you sell them on Yassen stopping me and him not being the instigator.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin took a deep breath and let it out in a slow hiss. “If I play my cards right, I can make that the official story. As noble as it is for you to take the fall like this, you do realize that this will likely hurt </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> case instead should someone leak the information.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t give a damn about my case,” Alex snapped. “I’m only testifying because Yassen says I have to. Everyone knows I’m a drug addict. Don’t bullshit me, Vankin. I know you’ve got this suppressed already. You’re not going to fork over whatever footage you’ve still got to MI6 or the UN, so it’s our word against K-unit’s. Even if it does become public knowledge and it hurts my credibility, what does it really matter? We don’t have to win the case against MI6, we just have to drag it out until you guys can do whatever the fuck you plan to do about Estrov. Don’t act like this is extra trouble for you. It’s the best option for both of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin seemed annoyingly unphased. “Agreed. Now put Yassen on the phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex wanted to huck the phone at the wall. “Not happening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not joking. Listen to me, Alex--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you listen,” Alex snarled. “I just spent the entire bloody night babysitting an upset, disoriented hitman with no impulse control in downtown Moscow, while dodging special forces trained soldiers and making sure nobody got shot OR run over by a tank-- and I did it all while </span>
  <em>
    <span>frustratingly sober.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not only is this going to go in my file for the rest of forever, but I didn’t even get to enjoy being high for any of it. I’m not letting you make tonight any harder for me. It’s your turn to be the grown up. You’re our handler. Fucking handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pressed his palms to his eye socket for a good minute after hanging up, dragging in breaths and counting to four. Once he was confident his anger was no longer obvious, he splashed water on his face before leaving his bathroom and padding over to the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christ. If Yassen had left the apartment while Alex was busy haranguing Vankin into lying for them--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer glanced up at him from the kitchen stove, where he was busy tipping something out of the frying pan and on to a plate. Alex paused, staring at the odd misshapen lumps that seemed half caramelized and half crisped. “Look, Alex. Toast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looked between the half burnt donut pastries and the pleased assassin now wrestling open the kippers tin. He couldn’t help the slow grin in spite of himself. “Brilliant. Make me one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. Chapter 50</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Aggggh... Happy Monday? I nearly forgot to post, but it's technically still Monday, so I think I'm in the clear. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben scribbled frantically on his notepad, locked safely in the small toilet of their flat. Three in the morning loomed over him like an exhausting spectre; a night of running, scouring the streets, and ultimately sweating bullets at the local precinct getting Snake and Eagle released.  Those two were now busy sulking into their cold takeout menus, their little spat with the women having earned them both a couple of scratches and a ride in the local police car. Fortunately, while they’d been taken into custody for causing a disturbance and behaving suspiciously, they’d texted Ben an update as they hadn’t technically been placed under arrest-- only taken in for a statement and translation services. Of course, Ben and Wolf had to wait to be freed from the men’s restroom by a peevish set of metro maintenance men with an electric saw, but as soon as they’d slipped out of that one, they were able to go to the local station and sort out the misunderstanding. The police themselves were more annoyed by the incident than anything else, so after a stern warning to behave themselves during their vacation, they were free to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By that point, Alex and the assassin had almost certainly made it back to their flat to have god knew what conversation. This was an utter nightmare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers response was swift.</span>
  <b> Has anyone submitted a status report?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>No. I’m lead. It’s my job to phone in the report and I have no idea how to go about it.</b>
  <span> Ben hesitated. </span>
  <b>Technically, we were never supposed to approach them so aggressively, at least not until we’d observed their comings and goings for the week but. Well. I have my own suspicions.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Yes, I’m afraid you may be onto something about being sacrificial lambs.</b>
  <span> Smithers text paused as the man himself seemed to hesitate.</span>
  <b> And approaching them like this tonight doesn’t seem to have done you any favors. Are you certain it was them in that tank?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>I saw them climb out, but I didn’t document it. </b>
  <span>Ben scrubbed an anxious hand through his hair, hunched over on the closed lid of the toilet as he was. </span>
  <b>I didn’t record anything tonight. Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t want MI6 realizing we might know they wanted Gregorovitch to kill us. I wanted our conversation off the record, if at all possible. I didn’t think he’d attack us with a bloody tank!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>In retrospect, I think that was very wise of you to avoid documentation, my good fellow. Did any of your team mates?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>We’ve been equipped with those button cameras. Based off your tech, I think. Not terribly long lasting or good footage before the batteries run out, but yeah. Most of the guys activated theirs at some point or another, but the data is stored locally and has to be downloaded from the actual device. Since I’m in charge of reports, I collected the buttons and wiped the footage without downloading it to my laptop. It’s probably being monitored.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Good. There’s still hope that we can sort this mess out.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben scowled at the screen. </span>
  <b>G tried to kill us. What is left to sort?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>You can’t be sure of that. I will look into it. For now, keep a lid on tonight’s events as they relate specifically to Alex and Yassen. Not just for Alex’s sake, but yours. If MI6 has any reason to think you’ve ignored or altered the mission’s parameters, you will be under a lot more scrutiny than either of us can afford at the moment. Hopefully, if there is another team in Moscow, they are either still getting established and don’t have you under observation yet since your orders were not to approach yet, or they somehow didn’t get enough conclusive evidence to make much of a difference either way. Color me an optimist, but I’d say our odds are quite good.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>How would I approach the reports then if we’ve possibly been observed? They’ll know I’ve lied or left parts out.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>There is always that risk. Offer a narrative that fits for the most part. Don’t mention the tank, certainly. As far as you are concerned, those might as well have been teenage joyriders and it certainly had nothing to do with you. You simply wanted to familiarize your team with the parts of the city you suspected Alex and Yassen might frequent after arriving in your flat. After that, you got locked in a men’s room and harassed by a few ladies of the night. Harmless pranks by the SVR, perhaps, to let you know that you’d been discovered, if tolerated.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>He let out a soft sigh, rubbing the exhaustion gathering in the corner of his eyes. </span>
  <b>So we just pretend nothing happened between us and them? After he tried to kill us?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>For all of our sakes, yes. Standby for further information, but in the meantime, get some sleep. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Wait.</b>
  <span> Ben stared at the screen, a little lost suddenly. Now that he actually went to pose the question, he didn’t realize he hadn’t properly phrased it. </span>
  <b>My team. I trust them. I think they want to do good by Alex, but I haven’t told them about our contact. I don’t want to put their heads on the chopping block alongside ours, but I can’t keep leaving them in the dark. A mission lead who kills reports won’t look good if we’re caught and they deserve more than… </b>
  <span>Ben furrowed his brows.</span>
  <b> Being left in the dark, trying to cover for me without understanding why.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>So you’d like my advice on how to loop them in without burdening them with real culpability?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>I suppose so, yes. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>I would recommend you tell them your suspicions about MI6 and their apparent willingness to sacrifice you lot. That will explain much of your reluctance to communicate honestly with your employers. You’ve already expressed your concern for Alex’s wellbeing, which you say they match so they will likely not question you on several other decisions you might make in the near future. However, the truth is that at some point, that will not be enough to explain your behavior to them satisfactorily. You will have to make a choice: let them involve themselves and potentially face the consequences or risk everything we have done together by letting them leave with compromising information. There is no other way around it, though when that day comes, should you choose to involve them, I trust that I will remain your ‘anonymous contact’. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Of course. Someone has to keep looking out for Alex should we get caught.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Indeed. Fortunately, Gregorovitch’s goals align with ours more than you know. He will ensure that Alex survives, if nothing else. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben’s brain screeched to a halt. </span>
  <b>How do you know what his goals are? Have you been in contact with him directly?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes lasered in on the cryptic response. It seemed to take an eternity for the gadget master to find the words. Perhaps he was simply preoccupied with something else. The man seemed to juggle many things.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>I cannot speak for him. I can, however, say with a reasonable deal of confidence, that he will prioritize Alex’s needs over his own and that he will do everything in his power to ensure that Alex is never again used as an operative by anyone. “Is more invested in me being normal than I am” is how Alex once phrased it, if I recall correctly. Do not misunderstand me: your fears that he may eliminate you as a possible threat are valid. Your fears that he will harm Alex, however, are not. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>So you are telling me to trust him, while also telling me that he will happily murder me at the drop of a hat. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers response seemed inappropriately cheery. </span>
  <b>Such is the nature of encountering a man of his profession, I suppose, my dear chap. An odd and untrusting fellow, but he is certainly doing us some favors by looking after the boy to make up for the rest, wouldn’t you say? At any rate, I will see what I can do. Get some rest, Daniels. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wolf studied Ben as he walked into the room, eyes tight. The man’s special sunglasses had been flicked down, which he was using to subtly glance around the small, mostly bare apartment. Wolf didn’t bother commenting on it-- with Ben’s revelation earlier that night that he suspected that MI6 was here to document their murders as best they could, it made sense that their flat might contain surveillance unknown to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, giving him a pair of sunglasses to spot such a thing would raise some red flags about what they’d actually been sent here to do. It wasn’t a stretch to think Jones wanted to avoid questions from them. Hence the need for a second team. Wolf suspected his hunch was correct when after a good minute or two, Ben flicked his sunglasses up on top of his head and considered his team mates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to talk,” the SAS-soldier-turned-spook said heavily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle and Snake stopped grumbling to each other in low voices and turned to look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did MI6 say?” Snake asked. “Did we get any footage they can use?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben’s lips tightened. “That’s what we need to discuss. Wolf?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t said anything,” the man responded, already guessing where his mind was going. “Thought they should hear from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing his arms, Ben nodded slowly. “Fair enough, thanks. Right. So I’ve got some suspicions and I think it’s pretty important we all get on the same page as to how we’re going to regard MI6.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound ominous or anything. Look, we all know they’re going to try to screw the kid over. We all understand that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “Not just the kid. Us.” He hesitated. “It’s odd, isn’t it? That we’re soldiers and we’ve been sent here anyway, without cover identities. We’ve all noticed. We’ve all brought it up. This looks like a hostile action against the two of them, if barely legal, so why do it all if there’s little chance we’d succeed in persuading Alex? We certainly didn’t give them any reason to hope he’d trust us based off of his actions in Kingman. I have no real proof, just suspicions that get stronger with every passing hour here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, just spit it out, Ben,” Eagle said, leaning back in his seat. Exhausted. “You’ve got an idea. What shitty thing are your bosses doing this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben set his jaw. “I think they want to goad Gregorovitch into killing us so another team can document it and prove he’s a dangerous criminal. I think we failed in Kingman and now we’re expendable as a familiar, yet obviously threatening force. Gregorovitch might not have seen our faces in Arizona, but Alex clearly trusts him more than us and can be counted on to relay the information. We look like we’re here to kidnap the kid and cause trouble. Gregorovitch has a history of preemptively eliminating problems. It fits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t make sense. Why set us up to do reconnaissance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bare bones reconnaissance,” Ben corrected him. “None of you have the training for this kind of thing anyway. Isn’t that strange that they didn’t even crank you through a two hour training session on urban methods before we left, rather than relying on just a ten minute presentation on using the button cams? You’d think they’d at least make us watch training videos on the flight over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Body cams,” Snake said slowly. “Not even real proper surveillance cameras. I thought they just wanted close ups of us interacting with Alex to document bruises or something. To keep it subtle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or to get a close up of us getting shot,” Wolf added heavily. It made too much sense. “Or stabbed. Or whatever this guy’s MO is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shooting, mostly,” Ben supplied. “Though he’s adaptable. Stabbing. Snapping necks. Bit of an opportunist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle glared. “Thank you, I am so reassured knowing that. What a load off my mind. Whatever’s convenient, is how I’ll die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you be reassured by anything right now. You deserve to know the danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is why you pushed to approach him as soon as you realized he knew we were here,” Snake said slowly, glancing at Wolf for confirmation. “Because Gregorovitch might act quickly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben nodded. “I thought, well, even if it was a long shot, at least we’d have a chance to prove we weren’t threats. To try and make a point of full transparency to avoid getting murdered on day one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does this mean for us?” Snake asked suddenly. He met Ben’s eyes steadily. “If we’re here to die, rather than bring the kid back into the fold, what does this mean for us going forward?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben tilted his head. “It means we follow the mission, just very cautiously. Tonight… will have happened differently in my report. No tank. Just getting locked in the bathroom and the prostitute brawl--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a brawl if you don’t hit back,” Snake muttered, rubbing the welt’s where one of the women’s nails had raked across his jaw. Eagle rubbed the side of his neck, sporting his own bruises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--which we’ll heavily imply that we suspect were the SVR being assholes. Letting us know that we’ve been made. That we’re watched.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That might help. If we’re too watched to be useful, we might get recalled,” Wolf mused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doubt it. There’s still a chance the assassin might come after us still, or that the SVR might try to disappear us themselves. Both could still work in MI6’s favor if they catch it on camera,” Ben pointed out. “No. We’ll likely be left to the original mission here while they wait for them to kill us. Unless we actually find evidence that Alex is being horribly abused, but I doubt Gregorovitch would be so obvious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moody silence fell over the room. Wolf was hardly surprised. He’d already churned over the core problem of MI6 leaving them exposed and vulnerable in the hopes they’d be murdered in a legally actionable way. Snake and Eagle had maybe five minutes since the bombshell had been dropped. It was a lot to consider.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that and the idea that Ben wasn’t telling them everything, but what else was new? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why leave out the tank from our reports?” Wolf asked eventually, giving Ben a steady, inscrutable look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bolt of harsh energy erupted in the spy’s chest. Shit. He’d half hoped his team wouldn’t notice that little detail, but of course they would. Luckily, he’d taken a moment to get his ducks in a row before coming out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben pressed his lips together, careful to betray nothing but the expected tension of the moment. “Because the more I think about it, the more I think it was really Alex that was driving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake raised an eyebrow. “You think he wants us dead that badly? Really, Ben.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head gently and shrugged. “Admittedly, us showing up in Moscow is an unpleasant surprise. There’s no reason for him to think it’s a good thing since he’s here voluntarily. Besides, I’ve studied Gregorovitch a lot. Every file I could find. It makes even less sense for him to attack us like that. He’s opportunistic, but he’s very, very discreet. It’s why he climbed to the top of the food chain at Scorpia and why it’s so hard to tie him to any crimes now. He wouldn’t plow into a children's museum or try to run us over in public. Alex is... a lot less subtle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf snorted. “I’ll say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake tilted his head. “But Gregorovitch was with him in the tank. We saw them both climb out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben spread his hands. “We don’t know their relationship. Maybe they tried to hide in it and Alex did something stupid. We don’t know what kind of stress he’s been under. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he was high. Maybe he’s really just that angry with us. I doubt Gregorovitch would have intervened for our sakes, but he might have stopped Alex from committing any major crimes where they would be caught quickly. It probably just took him a while to get him to stop. He doesn’t seem to have complete authority over the kid. Remember our phone call in Kingman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle snorted and mimicked the flat, exhausted voice they’d all committed to memory. “Stop talking, Alex. Give me back the phone, Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. He might be keeping the brat alive for whatever reason, but he’s not exactly effective at managing his behavior. We’re lucky he stopped him at all, if that’s what he did.” Ben shook his head and gestured vaguely. “Anyway, my point is that if we report the tank incident, this could easily blow back on Alex. MI6 wouldn’t be the worst of it. What do you think the Russians are going to do to the kid if he hurts their case like that? It’s one thing if he loses in court because the judges don’t think he was a spy, but another if Alex-- pardon my phrasing-- tanks the case himself. His testimony would be worthless if his character is subject to enough doubt, which makes him a problematic waste to keep around for the SVR. Expensive. Embarrassing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shit. You’re right. They might punish him somehow for it. Maybe even kill him if the case disappears altogether.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle’s lips twisted. “Though we are relying on the idea that a second team didn’t capture evidence of the tank chasing you two at all. Did you see anyone else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf shook his head with a shrug. “No, but I didn’t have much of a chance to check before we were being chased by a bloody tank. If we weren’t supposed to approach them for another few days, that might mean the other team isn’t in position yet. I’m not sure how this spy shit works, but if this were the SAS I’d assume they needed time to pull more qualified people from other missions. Either way, I agree that mentioning the tank will only hurt Alex. If there’s a chance that no one else knows, I think we should keep our mouths shut.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if they already know and ask why we didn’t report it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Play dumb, I guess,” Snake sighed. “We’re not trained for this, you know, and the mission is vague.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that that’ll keep us from being chewed out if we’re caught, Ben especially, but you’re right. We’re not qualified for this. That’s kind of the point of us, I suppose.” Wolf grimaced. “So where does that leave us? We just play good little soldiers and go along with our suicide mission and hope that we don’t get murdered? If Ben’s guess is right, the fucking kid we’re trying to save might even be the one to do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll need to be careful, but yes.” Ben nodded, careful to conceal his relief. They’d bought it. “Hopefully, whatever mood that got him into the tank to chase us was just a passing thing and we get a chance to make a better second impression. Make it clear we mean no harm. Pose no real threat. We have no choice at any rate. We’ll just have to play this by ear and try to keep all of our movements above board outside of this apartment.” He took a deep breath. “So that leads us back to tonight. Wolf and Eagle-- you are on first shift while Snake and I sleep. We’ll change out in four hours for second watch.“</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. Chapter 51</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yassen inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his eyes open to face the faint lines of pale early morning light creeping through the blinds of the office window. God, he felt awful. Not only did the world feel fluttery around the edges, suggesting that the cannabis brownie hadn’t entirely run it’s course, but his stomach felt like someone had sprayed it full of expanding foam insulation. Chert. How much had he eaten? He really, really didn’t want to think about it, already a little tempted to force himself to throw up to relieve the pressure. His shoulders and spine made their irritable presences known as well, the little knots winding through his muscles screaming for attention as he shifted in place. Falling asleep on the edge of the couch with his body at a strange angle and his gun digging into his back had obviously been a poor choice to make last night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Among many, many others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere in the kitchen, the phone rang. Probably what woke him. Alex must have left it there last night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen let out a soft groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s face creased and he muttered something, cracking open his own eyes before shutting them just as quickly. He’d fallen asleep on the older man’s shoulder, legs spread across the couch and taking up most of the space. No wonder Yassen’s back was killing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gently moving Alex’s head to the arm of the couch to free himself, Yassen glanced back at the computer screen with a grimace. Neither of them had thought to pause their video from last night, so autoplay had taken them down some bizarre rabbit hole. Instead of an endlessly array of fail videos, an Italian grandmother was demonstrating proper pasta shaping technique. Yassen closed the window with a grimace and took a cursory glance at the camera feeds. Empty as expected. He went to shut off the monitor when he noticed a small email icon on the bottom of the screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Odd. It should only be linked to the account he’d registered with the apartment complex, though he’d had to jump through some technological hoops in order to make the video feeds truly private from the rest of the complex (it was provided as part of a private security package). That email address was hardly known to more than two or three entities and they rarely sent him direct messages, especially at-- he checked the message receipt-- two in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicked it open cautiously, ready for any hint of a virus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he found an email advert for an Australian politician’s pet legal reformation project, something to do with emergency funds for foreign victims of war crimes. It looked very real, to the point where Yassen was confident there probably was an actual politician with this exact cause; though he doubted this was a case of a mistyped address. CALL YOUR REPRESENTATIVE NOW was listed in all caps across the header of the email, though the text itself stood out from the rest of the email for another reason. Primarily, because it had been overly enlarged, in comic sans, and was flashing rainbow colors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was only one operative Yassen knew who was that inappropriately cheerful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chert. The thought brought his brain back to reality. He was going to be stuck making a lot of phone calls today, the least aggravating of which would be to the bizarre gadget man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groaned aloud as Yassen tugged open the door, rolling off the couch and rubbing his forearm across his eyes with a yawn. His overgrown hair stuck out in all directions, half of which had escaped the loose little bun sometime in the night. “What time is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nearly six.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.” Alex staggered to his feet, trailing Yassen to the kitchen. “How do you feel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can function, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yassen muttered, glancing at the container of brownies on the counter. Frustration mingled with embarrassment. He didn’t want Alex to ever see him that inebriated again, to have to be the one responsible for the both of them in more than passing. To see him weak. On the other hand, none of his situation last night had been due to Yassen’s choices, beyond stealing a brownie. Of all the damn things. Of all the damn choices he’d ever made in his life-- this would be the one to bite him in the ass. He was torn between being angry with the child and wanting to apologize profusely to him. Neither were particularly appropriate. “Where’s my phone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex fished it out of his pocket to hand to him before collapsing onto the closest chair and folding his torso over the counter. “God, I’m so tired. What time did we fall asleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One or two in the morning, I imagine,” Yassen told him, shooting him an amused look. While he wouldn’t say his own four hours had been particularly restful, it hadn’t left him a yawning pool of crankiness as it did the teen puddling on the counter. Yassen flicked through his call history-- it showed only a few calls between Vankin and no one else, as he’d expected. He checked the caller ID of the cordless phone on the counter: just the front office of the complex. Probably following up on Alex’s complaint call last night. “Go back to sleep. I can handle things from here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex yawned again in lieu of a proper answer, but shook his head. “Gotta update you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose again. That was true enough. Seeing how out of it the teen was, he’d been planning on just pumping Vankin for details of their phone conversation and leaving it at that. While part of him felt like his spirit was leaving his body when he allowed himself to actually ponder his actions last night, he felt that his recollections were fairly accurate. Unless Alex had contacted anyone else on his own last night (unlikely if Sithers had reached out to him directly), Yassen was confident his phone conversation with their handler was the only thing he’d missed. “Very well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I called Vankin,” Alex mumbled, propping his chin on his palm. “And told him what had happened. He tried to brush me off, so I led with the whole tank bit. He wasn’t happy, but from what I understand from our second conversation last night, he’d gotten a hold of all of the footage and was going to get rid of it. Dealt with the police too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded tersely. So that was handled then. “Good. If that fire has been put out, that leaves us only with the SAS to contend with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head. “Yes and no. Vankin mentioned that this whole thing would make you look bad internally so I made him pin it on me. If anyone asks, I got upset when I realized who had been sent to Moscow to spy on me, got high, and crashed a tank into a bunch of stuff before you got control of the situation. Vankin’s the hero who killed the evidence, which he can’t show anyone because it’s destroyed. I’m the unstable drug addict with a history of dramatic temper tantrums. You’re the reliable babysitter who talked me down. Everyone wins.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen clenched his fists, not exactly trusting himself to speak as he busied himself with shoving the dishes from last night into the sink and hurling the fish tins into the trash. So it had been more than just running around and dealing with the SAS that Alex had been forced to do for him-- taking responsibility for Yassen in more ways than one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It probably didn’t matter, Yassen forced himself to repeat in his head. The SVR wouldn’t share evidence they’d already destroyed, so the odds of this hurting either of their cases were low. Alex especially was insulated from the internal politics of the SVR. While it would have seriously impacted Yassen’s standing with the agency to be accused of this, with Alex it would likely be swept irritably under the rug by anyone who’d read his file. Alex was merely a smokescreen for the agency when he wasn’t a token indulgence to the assassin, so his bizarre behavior would be tolerated if at all possible, provided he didn’t compromise their true intent or cost them more than he was worth. Beyond Vankin being told to keep a tighter leash on the pint-sized ex-spy, it was entirely possible that nothing would come of this other than a few vague warnings and some internal calculations on exactly how much damage they would accept from the boy in the future. So long as this didn’t happen every weekend, the costs would likely stay acceptably low and the evidence thin. A palatable narrative.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless the SAS had any evidence of last night. That could be a problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was careful to keep his face neutral as he rinsed the frying pan he’d half burnt sugar in last night. His stomach lurched at the smell. If they did manage to get any footage, there was little he could do about it now. If they had only their testimony to rely on, that was a problem he could solve. Right now, he had to shuffle Alex back into bed, perhaps phone in to his school to excuse his absence, and then get ahold of his handler. Once he could determine exactly the ramifications of the SAS team meeting with an unfortunate accident, Yassen could go about arranging said accident. Vankin might be able to assist if the agency was amenable, but regardless, Yassen was comfortable eliminating the men on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might even enjoy it a little, Yassen realized, wiping his hands on a small towel. Just a tiny bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So here’s the less fun part of the story.” Alex sighed and grimaced, glancing quickly at Yassen’s face. “Remember when I met up with you at the store and I told you to prepare to be cross with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen folded his arms. “Now that you mention it, I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well….” The boy considered the counter he was still slumped across, before he began to speak. It only took the brat a couple of minutes to run Yassen through the basics of the previous day. Almost getting caught with his tincture at school, going to the restaurant, his hopes that the weed brownies would be more discreet. His paranoid not quite panic attack and his decision to investigate the odd glare he never identified. Finding K-unit and the conversation he’d overheard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lies over text message.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex quailed under his gaze. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, it’s that it didn’t feel like I could. As soon as I left to go check out the complex, I thought to text you to tell you where I was going like I normally do, but... I don’t know. It felt stupid. I knew you wouldn’t want me to go alone, but I just wanted to stop worrying about it as soon as possible. Figured if I just took a look to prove to myself it was nothing, I could push it aside and go on with my night.” Alex shrugged helplessly. “I really thought it was going to be nothing. Meant to tell you all about it when you got home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t explain why you lied about where you were,” Yassen said, crossing his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that was different,” Alex admitted. He fidgeted, now a lot more alert. “Once I realized they were talking about their mission, I realized it would be good intel. Well, I thought it would be; I guess you already knew they were aiming to find evidence you’re unfit. Anyway, when I realized you were waiting and that they were on high alert, I didn’t want to risk you coming over to get me. Not only would I lose the chance to eavesdrop, if they spotted you at their complex, I was afraid things would get ugly. There wasn’t really enough time to explain all that to you, so I lied just enough to keep you at the flat while I finished up. I really did plan on telling you as soon as I got back, but you were gone when I got here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen let out a slightly harsh breath. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it was unpleasant. Alex’s independent personality might have made some compromises in the last few months, but it was clear he hadn’t lost his tendency to wander off and risk himself without warning. As much as he wanted to be reassured by the boy’s initial instinct to reach out, Yassen knew better than relying on that. Alex had preferred lying to involving him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex was studying him, chewing on his lip. “You cross with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I lied.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s correct.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed, staring at his hands. “I’m not lying about wanting to tell you. Mostly, there just wasn’t time to explain the whole thing to you right then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could have texted that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess,” Alex agreed. “But I think you would have worried. Don’t tell me you would have been happy sitting here wondering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a flat look. “Alex, you were alone in what amounts to enemy territory. Worrying would be the correct response, but I couldn’t even provide you backup because I went to look for you somewhere you never were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Alex muttered. “That’s pretty obvious now. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s hand drifted onto his cigarette pack, stuffed into his pocket at some point last night. Fantastic. There was really no way around it, was there? A fundamental incompatibility of theirs. Alex was right in his assumption that Yassen would have gone over to the apartment immediately had he known, even if it added to the risk. Knowing the correct tactical response wasn’t exactly the same as knowing himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t mean this whole thing wasn’t a massive problem if it was going to keep happening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What could Yassen possibly do? Tagging the little brat with a GPS tracker was certainly tempting, but problematic for several reasons. Anything technological posed the risk of being hackable, so it could just easily become a boon to everyone else who wanted to make their lives hell. Alex would surely balk. It would definitely cut down on his independence: Yassen didn’t particularly want to micromanage the boy’s life, but he also wanted the little idiot to survive to adulthood. Assigning followers or minders to the boy fell into that same category of again offering someone else a vantage point in the brat’s day-to-day. Not only that, but they would be more obvious; Alex was no doubt spot them and do everything in his power to render them worthless, even if he knew who they were and what their purpose was. Yassen couldn’t handhold Alex every single minute of his life for obvious reasons--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are there codes you use for this sort of thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked and looked back at the boy. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like police codes or radio codes. I learnt some at Brecon Beacons, but I don’t recall them anymore.” Alex straightened in his seat and frowned at his flip phone. “Did Scorpia train you on any that we can use? Things that mean “hold on, I’m looking into something so please don’t do anything yet but there might be trouble though probably not” or “might need backup, please wait for more details but don’t worry and stay put” or “everything’s fine, wait for me to explain”. I mean, I guess I could get better at texting just those things, but there’s just, a lot of context that could be going on and I really was worried about time. I think we should just come up with codes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are some.” Yassen twisted his lips. “Hardly will do us any good if you keep lying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him an exasperated look, though Yassen detected a hint of hurt. It wasn’t exactly undeserved. “Only because I didn’t have time to explain properly. I was going to tell you. That was the plan. ‘When’ was the only problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That and your tendency to run headfirst into danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “Alright, that too, I suppose. I’m not sure I can help that, though.” Another furtive glance. “That was another thing I wanted to ask you, actually. What do you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the most paranoid person I know,” Alex told him plainly. He considered him. “What do you do to feel better when you’ve got a feeling you just can’t shake off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a fair question. Yassen just didn’t want to answer truthfully, but did anyway. “I usually just look into it,” he grumbled. “Or make contingency plans if I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Alex pursed his lips. He drummed his fingers gently on the countertop. “Maybe we should focus more on the codes then. Sounds like we’ll need them. A new phone might help too, maybe with a slide out keyboard like Dr. Wood had. I’m faster on those. Cycling through the letters on a dialpad is much harder for me. I don’t know how you’re so fast on them. With one of those, I can explain more in a shorter amount of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stared at him in surprise, internally calling himself an idiot and unable to stop the small flickers of warmth spreading through him. Here he’d been, brainstorming every idea he had to solve the problem himself, trying to account for Alex’s behavior rather than incorporate it. Meanwhile, Alex was busy trying to figure out a system they could both use, something voluntary on his part that would help the both of them share responsibility without necessarily conflicting with either of their natures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he was right to be surprised. Alex hadn’t really offered solutions like this before-- Yassen usually had to adapt around him or press him to agree with any proposed solutions, like holding the pills for him or going to the restaurant to study. Compared to the many surprises that sprung up, Alex offering his own ideas transparently was certainly a nicer one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the boy was maturing, just a little. Becoming more trustworthy, should Yassen dare to dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not a bad idea. I’ll look into getting you another phone. We can discuss a few codes later.” The contract killer rested his hand on Alex’s shoulder and shook him gently as the boy yawned again. “You did very well last night as well, little Alex. Go lay down. I’ll phone your school to excuse your absence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex yawned again, seemingly pleased with the idea and relaxing. “What are you going to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen grimaced. “Make an ungodly amount of phone calls, I expect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Alex rubbed his face and straightened in his seat, but didn’t leave it for his room. “One last thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise you won’t do anything to K-unit? They’re prats, but they are sort of my prats, if that makes sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. He’d hoped to avoid this conversation altogether. Just one of the many instances in which it would have been more convenient if Alex hadn’t gotten used to dealing with spies and criminals all the time. Obviously, the universe simply couldn’t cut Yassen a single break today. Perhaps he ought not delay the inevitable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pressed his lips together. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly Alex’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t lie to you and I won’t start now. If they pose a real threat, I will handle it as I see fit.” Yassen pressed a hand to his stomach. Big mistake. He really might just vomit. Pickled watermelon really wasn’t sitting well with the smoked fish or improvised donut toast. “I will take your feelings into account if I can,” he offered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex hopped off his stool and scowled at him. “Don’t! They’re barely a threat. We’ve got a good lie prepared already for last night and we can spot their surveillance with our iPods now, so we can just avoid them altogether. That is, if they didn’t end up getting arrested for fighting with prostitutes on the street and deported anyway. Yassen, you can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a deliberate expressionless look. Alex’s assumptions and blind faith in him had to come to an end sometime. It just wasn’t practical to allow him to harbor them long term, even if it made other things easier. Was more pleasant. To be fair to the boy, sometimes they both seemed to forget exactly who Yassen was. “I assure you, I can. Now, go rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you can’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a negotiation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their landline rang. Tempted to ignore it, Yassen realized the caller ID listed the concierge desk and snatched it up before Alex’s startled anger could morphe into an actual response. “Yes?” he answered. Hopefully they weren’t calling to reference his odd behavior the night before, nor the incident in front of the complex. Either way, it was best to know what they wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies, Mr. Lebedev, but an urgent message has been posted for a Ms.--” the woman at the desk hesitated slightly. A pensive clicking, as though she were double checking a computer window. “Ash Madre? I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have anyone listed at your apartment by that name, but I’ve double checked the address.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It must be some sort of error, thank you,” Yassen told her calmly as he hung up. Wonderful. It seemed the gadget man urgently wanted his attention. Ash was an obvious reference to Yassen’s name, which translated directly to ‘ash tree’, while the spanish word for mother was an obvious dig at Alex’s habit of calling him mum. Or of Yassen’s embarrassing admission to the man. No one else would bother with such a roundabout way of getting his attention. Smithers must have decided that Yassen was ignoring his email as opposed to just busy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if he didn’t have enough to do today anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex had apparently had more than enough time to collect himself, though he was pressing his palms against his forehead. Clearly this fight was far from over. “They don’t deserve to die just for this. They don’t really have a choice about what their missions are. They barely like me, so I don’t think they even want to be here. What do I have to do to convince you? What is it that you want from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Yassen snapped, pulling out his iPod. He began the connection process. “I’m not doing this to coerce you into doing what I want. I assure you, if I was, I would have made that clear. Just go to sleep and let me handle this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyebrows drawing sharply down, Alex stared at the device in his hands and put his hands on his hips. “Who are you calling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I thought this would be the perfect chance to chat with Wood. You know, discuss her thoughts on the X-files and whatever else is on her mind this week.” Yassen scowled and lightly brandished the silver music player. “Obviously, I’m calling Smithers. He’s been quite aggressive in attempting to garner my attention since the early hours of the morning, so I’d much rather call him now before he hires a skywriter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed and held out two pinched fingers in a quiet request. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen hesitated, studying the boy. He obviously wasn’t done with the argument about the SAS men, but he’d clearly gauged the effectiveness of continuing to protest at this very second. Weariness tugged at the circles under his serious brown eyes. He really should be getting more sleep, not that Yassen had any hope that he’d persuade the boy of that, now probably too riled up to properly wind down even if the boy wanted to. To be fair, Alex could be pitching a bigger tantrum and wasn’t: Yassen was tentatively hopeful about that. He’d even tried to offer Yassen solutions to the problems he’d caused. Instead of balking at the mere idea that Yassen might kill, here he was, asking to be included and trusted, the way he’d once done for Yassen in prison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It probably wouldn’t hurt anything. He’d need the collateral with the boy and his hit-and-miss morality later. With a grimace, Yassen handed over one of the earbuds, tucking the other in his own.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. Chapter 52</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Great. Yassen was even more of a grouchy asshole than usual. Alex smothered a sigh. That meant the man was probably cross with everything and overcompensating. It was partially Alex’s fault (okay, most of it was) and he certainly didn’t blame the man for being in a mood. With any luck, he’d mellow out soon enough, but in the meantime there was the very real possibility he might actually murder K-unit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Alex had thought babysitting a high Yassen was bad, now he had to watch the man like a hawk while he was sober and well aware of what Alex was up to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brilliant. Just fucking briliant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least the codes idea was promising; Yassen wouldn’t have said so otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers picked up right away. “You ‘ve had a busy night, I take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small teen couldn’t help it; he perked right up hearing his old friend’s voice. “I’ll say,” Alex said without thinking. “Yassen stole a tank. It was crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Said assassin gave Alex a dirty look. Right. He probably should stick to the lie, and maybe let Yassen decide the flow of information for the call.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Alex, my boy,” Smithers said, a genuine touch of delight inflecting his voice. “I take it the night was quite exciting for you as well. You are doing well, I trust?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, just tired. How are--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a flat look. “Can we cut to the chase, Smithers?” he demanded. “I’ve got at least a half dozen calls to make this morning regarding last night. I’m only calling you to prevent you from leaving obvious contact records at my building. Exactly what couldn’t wait?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, of course. I imagine you have quite a bit to deal with,” Smithers assured him. “However, I am glad I caught you first. There are a few things we need to discuss and perhaps it’s best that Alex is along for this ride too. Now, exactly why did you attack the surveillance team last night in a tank?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen glared at the ceiling, jaw set and working slightly. Alex had no doubt in his mind that he was half wishing the floor would swallow him as he contemplated just how to approach the topic of his behavior in the last twenty-four hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There really was no better way, though. Alex was ninety percent certain there was no discrete way to phrase it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I accidentally drugged Yassen,” Alex supplied helpfully, after about five seconds of dead air from the other man. Maybe he’d best just lead the charge for both of them. “He was really, very high and definitely not in his right mind. He’s sober now, though. The official story I arranged for is that I was high and I drove the tank because I was cross to see K-unit in Moscow after what happened in Kingman. They’re fine, by the way. It’s just going to be a lot easier this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers hissed through his teeth. “You know, my dear boy, you may damage your credibility as a witness if anything like this happens again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to be much more proactive about labeling my pot brownies, I promise. Besides, the SVR killed all the security footage they could find for us.” Alex sobered, staring down at the little screen. “Mr. Smithers? Last night, I noticed that the iPod can spot all your other surveillance tech. K-unit definitely has some. Is there any way for you to figure out if K-unit got any footage of us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is, actually.” Smithers voice cheered a bit. “Though I’m afraid my method is startling low tech.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen broke in, seemingly having regained control of his vocal chords. “And what way is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mole, of course,” Smithers said blandly. “That’s what I called to discuss with you, Mr. Gregorovitch. As Alex mentioned, the only real threat to you from that team is if they’ve managed to get footage of you two. I assure you, my man on the inside has deleted all the evidence and gently misled the rest of the team as to why their reports are going to leave out the incident with the tank. I’ve just checked in with him to confirm. Given your rather… definitive tendencies regarding loose ends, I considered it imperative to call you before you could accidentally execute one of my best sources of intel within MI6. K-unit must be spared any cautionary bullets you may feel inclined to dispense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grinned with relief. “Oh, great! I was just talking to him about that--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose, giving Alex a stern look that made no promises. “Your man is on that team? Which one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m afraid I’m not sure I should say. His situation is rather precarious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me guess,” Yassen snapped. “He’s the spy. Ben Daniels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that you mention it, it is rather obvious,” Smithers sighed. “Ah, well. Yes. Mr. Daniels has been working with me for a few weeks now, slipping me intel as possible and directing Mi6’s attention as best he can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared at his hands. “Ben’s helping the case? What about the rest of the unit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Their position is a little more… nebulous.” Smithers sounded almost apologetic. “While none of them are truly trusting of MI6, they don’t know about Daniels and my cooperation, nor our true goals. He’s considered looping them in, and will likely be forced to at some point in the future, but for now we’d rather they remain ignorant of the current state of things. Gives us time to prepare. The fewer people we have in our little treason circle, the less risk to all of us, you understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How well have you vetted him?” Yassen crossed one arm across his chest, wincing. He moved it off of his stomach. It occurred to Alex suddenly that he might be in some sort of pain. He had eaten a lot of odd things last night. “I trust you’re not taking him at his word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.” Despite the conversation at hand, Alex was slightly bemused to realize that while both of the men were obviously a little annoyed with each other, neither was taking direct offense at the pointed questions of the other. He’d known they’d chatted without him before, but he didn’t expect this… almost friendly professionalism, sans more than the bare bones of trust. It was a little bizarre. “I’ve been vetting him slowly and thoroughly. While I’d say there’s an eighty percent chance that Jones will try to onboard him, I’m quite confident that he hasn’t gone through that process yet. By that point, I intend to have my own hooks in him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such as?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, such as plenty of evidence that he’s committed treason with me. I’ve got a few other factors in the works, though it likely won’t be necessary: guilt seems to be working quite nicely on its own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s new to the spy world,” Smithers tutted. Despite the inherent tension to the moment, his voice carried a faint touch of blithe amusement.  “Hardly a year into his career, actually, and only seven months or so into field work. Hasn’t quite shed all of his expectations and hopes for humanity and his government. Lovely chap, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled. “And you’re trusting him with such little practical experience?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To some extent, yes. Fortunately for us, his role in the scheme of things is fairly small, but his instincts are good and he’s nosy to a fault. He’s already managed to get ahold of a lot of intel for me just because he was so determined to figure out what happened to Alex after you two broke out of prison. Upset at how much didn’t add up. Made quite the nuisance of himself, without necessarily arousing more than passing suspicion. It was his personality rather than my own requests driving things after all. I doubt Jones suspects him of working with me yet.” Smithers paused. “There is another thing I think it wise to bring up. Perhaps Alex ought to duck out...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex furrowed his brows. “What? What is it you don’t want me to hear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a quick glance. “I’ll likely tell him anyway, even if he doesn’t like what he hears. You might as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see why you two get along. A much nicer change than getting curated information from MI6, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not wrong,” Alex admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me, then. Daniels has shared with me a theory that occurred to him the other night. You see, when he realized that Alex had overheard some of their conversation, he became concerned that Alex hadn’t gotten enough information to understand how harmless their mission is. That he’d go running back to you with the wrong idea and that you’d soon be out for their blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would explain why they pursued us so aggressively,” Yassen muttered. “You realize that means Daniels is an idiot to have kept approaching us like that? Had I been sober, I likely would have killed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agent Daniels’ wisdom aside,” Smithers went on. “That’s exactly what his fear was. That had you realized who had been sent to observe you-- three soldiers and a spy-- that you’d take the action as an aggressive one regardless of how they behaved. That you’d do the cautious thing, as you’ve been known to: eliminate the threat as discreetly as possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen leaned against the counter top, obviously not inclined to counter the point. “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Essentially, his theory is that the mission presented to the team is not the primary one at hand. Yes, MI6 might get some value out of them being here if it turns out Alex does respond positively to them or if they find evidence that you are abusing the boy, but that may not be their true purpose. That they are bait, designed to draw your fire while a second, theoretical team documents it as best they can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t so much as blink. “Have you confirmed the existence of a second team?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes and no.” Smithers hesitated. “I’ve not found a list of names, nor witnesses to any strange movements of agents in Moscow. However, I have observed some more... nebulous factors in play. Shadows of a team, one might say. Resources and money switching accounts in proximity to known Russian assets. The odd, almost half-arsed nature of Operation Nannycam itself--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Operation what?” Alex demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers continued on without so much as a break. “--the way it could easily be misinterpreted as more aggressive than it actually is. I’m not positive, but I’d say it’s likely that something is going on in the background. A setup of some kind. Enticing a killer to kill isn’t remotely out of their wheelhouse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared at the tiny iPod screen, his outrage displaced by a sudden hollow feeling. MI6 was just going to discard K-unit? Send them off to die like cheap bait just so they could make Yassen look bad?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was livid. Not surprised, not remotely, but livid. </span>
</p><p><span>Smithers cleared his throat. “This serves a dual purpose, of course, assuming they can ensure you are caught and connected to their deaths. Proving both that you are likely Yassen Gregorovitch in court and, if not that, that you are at minimum an unfit guardian for a child.”</span><span><br/></span> <span>Alex looked sharply at his carer. The man was considering the iPod screen with a pensive expression, clearly turning a few thoughts over. “Why would they do that?” the boy demanded. “Russia isn’t going to send me back. I’ve had this conversation eight different ways with Vankin. They can’t legally make me go back if I don’t want to.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Smithers voice brightened a notch, though Alex could hear the tightness lurking behind the words. “You are right, my good fellow, they cannot. But I suspect-- and this is based off some other intel I have-- that they are hoping to have you two separated. Force the government to move you elsewhere if only for the sake of international appearances: mustn't have a victimized child living with a confirmed killer after all. Likely, MI6 aims to move you somewhere you will have less protection or somewhere they can influence directly. That’s why there’s so much emphasis on proving Yassen unfit. They don’t have to prove their own innocence or why you should be forced to return against your will, merely move you closer towards their grasp.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex clenched his fists. “So they want to kidnap me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ultimately, yes, I believe they do. Moscow is the worst possible place for that, though. Too many watchers, too likely to fail while leaving strong evidence that the UN will not take lightly. Jones is taking quite a risk, one I don’t entirely understand, but one which we mustn't underestimate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shifted closer to Alex. “Exactly what play are you suggesting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Less of a play as yet, more of an approach.” Smithers cleared his throat. “Needless to say, first on that list is that you are to, under no circumstances, attempt to assassinate K-unit. I trust we are clear on that. I can’t keep finding moles, Gregorovitch; they don’t grow on trees. Don’t waste this one, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man addressed actually rolled his eyes. “Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nearly fell over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My second recommendation is to utilize K-unit in our favor.” Smithers’ voice grew a touch grim. A rhythmic clicking started up on his end of the line, as though he were fiddling with a pen. “If Jones is going to turn on some music, she really shouldn’t be surprised if you’d like to dance. Let’s give her a mission that appears to be succeeding despite all expectations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow. “In what manner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you refuse to either kill them or acknowledge the team as a real threat, there is little for that second, secret team to do. Let’s render them wholly useless. K-unit is already on documentation duty, so let’s use them. In fact, let’s give Alex an iPhone and a new Facebook account. Take lots of pictures of him visiting his old buddies. Tag everything. Use an excess of unnecessary emoticons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen scowled as Alex’s eyebrows shot up. “Absolutely not. That’s an utter security nightmare. The points of entry and weakness that that would reveal--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are less than the ones we gain,” Smithers countered. “Alex is suddenly very visible, surrounded by friendly British soldiers. How does he know said soldiers? It’s certainly suspicious that they are very, very familiar. Old friends from home. Maybe he entices them to reference Brecon Beacons on video, maybe he doesn’t. Either is fine. It doesn’t have to help the court case, because it renders MI6 unable to use this contact to harm it. No signs of abuse or neglect. No obvious security flaws. Just a secure, relaxed child who may or may not suffer from a drug problem and an assassin who refuses to prove his profession while the case moves forward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head with a quick glance at Alex. “There’s a flaw in your plan. Who’s to say this second team isn’t repurposed in the face of all this access to Alex. Instead of documenting my actions against K-unit, Jones switches the mystery team to extracting him directly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely. They’ll play directly into our hands.” Smithers' voice hardened. The clicking pen stopped. “You see, K-unit will almost certainly have to be involved in said extraction. They’re the ones with the access. They’re the ones who are succeeding at their supposed mission to earn Alex’s trust. Either the other team will have to work in conjunction with them, or K-unit will be tasked with the actual snatching. If and when that happens, we’ll have Daniels and possibly the whole team to leak us the information in real time. Not only will we be able to foil the attempt itself, we might be able to use it against Jones if we can get enough evidence. From what I understand, the prime minister and foreign secretary are edging closer and closer to removing her altogether.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex bit his lip, chewing that over. “So I’ll be the bait instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smithers sighed. “In a sense. I’m really very sorry it’s like this again-- these things never seem to go your way and I fear that it’s no different now. Please believe me, I’d much rather you be left alone. I’ve gone over it again and again, my dear boy. I really can’t come up with a safer option. Otherwise, we won’t be able to control the flow of information to MI6, or guide their actions, or have the chance to compromise what I see as an inevitable attempt to abduct you. I have no other way to track the second team, even if I’m quite convinced they exist. The next best thing I can do is to try to choose how we encounter them and on what terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex stared at his hands. It didn’t exactly sound like the worst thing ever but… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave of weariness washed over him. Something bitter crawled into his throat. It wasn’t Smithers fault, of course. It was Jones’, not that having the right person to blame did him much good. One day, he’d like to live without all this: the constant interference from strangers in his life, the constant sense of ever present threats hiding behind misrepresented motivations, the need to be on his toes all the time. It was beginning to feel like a pipe dream. He could barely remember what it was like not to have anything like this simmering in the background, pulling him away from his day-to-day life before he could settle into it enough to trust that it would be there tomorrow. If he even had it in him to trust like that anymore. No wonder his anxiety couldn’t fade-- constant vigilance was an on and off thing that he actually needed to have to survive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen studied him, frowning slightly. Of course he wouldn’t like the idea of Alex being out in the open, consorting with K-unit, and deliberately being dangled in front of MI6. His lack of an immediate counter point told Alex that he was considering it anyway, with that damn objectivity the teen both admired and despised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, this did sound like the best option. For them both. For K-unit. If all went well, nobody would get killed on Alex’s behalf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe not even Alex himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting his hand on Yassen’s forearm, Alex met his eyes and nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Yassen snapped into the microphone. “Let’s discuss this smartphone idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. Chapter 53</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy late Monday, everyone! Sorry the chapter got held up yesterday. It was my birthday, so I was hiking well outside of wifi range and forgot to post this before I left. As per tradition (and in apology), I'll do a double posting today. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was a knock at the flat’s door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben Daniels glanced over at Snake, now sitting bolt upright in his chair with a questioning eyebrow raised. After a mutual shrug of bemusement later, Ben stood and strode towards the door, just as Wolf poked his head out of the kitchen, a steaming mug of black coffee clenched in his fist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jerked his head at the entrance hallway as Ben passed. “You order lunch? It is nearly noon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Ben said, approaching the door with only a marginal amount of caution. His glasses were on the coffee table, but he hadn’t expected to need them given Smithers most recent message; assuring him that the entire business had been ‘handled’ and that if any attempts were made on their lives, it would not be by the Russian assassin living across the street. Anyone else looking to cause them any trouble wouldn’t bother knocking. The SVR would probably just kick the door in, regardless of their actual business. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t think of any particular reason for anyone else to visit them, though. He supposed it could be someone from the building. Maintenance. A neighbor, perhaps. “And they would have used the intercom if they were delivering something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf stiffened, just as Snake stood in the living room behind him. “Trouble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assassins don’t knock, do they? Probably just a neighbor,” Snake offered, glancing at the bedroom door across from him, obviously debating whether or not he should wake Eagle. “Or our landlord.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or some MI6 spook, waiting in the wings to chew us out for last night,” Wolf muttered into his mug. “We did technically get arrested, just not charged. I’m sure there’s some record of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben peeked through the peephole in the door, jaw dropping. “Oh, my god, it’s Alex.” He yanked it open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy himself glanced up at them with wry brown eyes, hair tugged untidily back into a short partial ponytail with more than a few strands escaping around his face. His school uniform was a quickly thrown together mess that probably skirted the minimum requirements for appropriate dress by an eyelash. He stood with his fingers looped through the straps of his bookbag, tugging them away from his body a bit like a parachuter pulling his chord. “Took you long enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning against the wall behind the boy, a man Ben had only seen in low-quality photographs tucked away a small music player, regarding him with iceberg eyes. While Ben was inclined to describe the man’s expression as neutral to the point of uncanny, he thought he might be imagining a faint hint of disapproval flitting momentarily across his features. He’d been standing just out of the peephole’s view. “Opening the door without a full sweep or a clear field of vision,” the man said. He could have been commenting on the weather for all the inflection in his voice. “Interesting. Their standards must be dropping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alright. Perhaps the disapproval was not imagined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben froze, not bothering to respond nor guess which ‘they’ the assassin had been referring to. He flicked his gaze back to Alex, taking his eyes off the man across from him only for a split second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Handled it, his arse. What the actual fuck was going on?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf recovered much faster. His mug of coffee had disappeared somewhere, both arms tense at his sides as he strode past Ben, face already rigid with an expression only slightly more composed than a scowl. Their drill sergeant would have been proud. Without a second’s hesitation, he loomed into the contract killer’s space, seemingly without blinking nor breaking hostile eye contact. He seemed to restrain himself from attacking-- barely. “Want to come inside, Cub?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teenager rolled his eyes. “No, Wolf. I’ve got school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure about that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Positive. It’s bloody Thursday.” Alex grimaced at Ben, before nodding to Snake standing behind the spy in the doorway. “I guess Wolf’s gone ahead and introduced himself to my mum like an utter prick.” He twisted to look back at the Russian assassin, who hadn’t so much as flinched at the invasion, nor glanced away from the other man’s attempt to loom over him despite Gregorovitch’s two inches of superior height. Their noses were practically touching. Despite the significant difference in their builds with Wolf being the more obviously muscled, Ben got the distinct impression that the less assuming man was the bigger threat; likely because he seemed wholly unphased by the interaction. “This is Fox and Snake,” Alex told the blonde man. “Eagle’s around too somewhere, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” was all the response that warranted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben took in a sharp breath and cleared his throat, automatically dropping into a pleasantly social tone. Damn. A little more warning from Smithers would have been appreciated-- as much as Ben intended to starve MI6 of the more useful video footage they picked up, it would have been reassuring to have any of the man, just to be safe. Apart from the glasses, his other primary recording device was his button cam-- currently installed in his winter coat, hanging on the rack behind him. “Thanks for handling the introductions for us, Alex. It’s been a while coming, I’d like to think. What brings you over today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex let out a little hum and tilted his head ever so slightly. “Oh, I thought I’d apologize. You know. For nearly running you over with a tank last night. In my defense, I was high and you guys were being pricks. Sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake stepped out into the hallway, leaving himself a decent amount of distance between him and the Scorpia assassin glancing over at him from his staring contest, the soldier’s lips pressed tightly together with obvious disapproval. Ben wasn’t sure when, but he’d managed to tug on his jacket sometime in the last minute-- with it’s similarly installed body cam disguised as a button. The zipper was undone, altering the angle, but from the way he stood Ben was relatively certain it would capture the assassin at least. “High on what, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raised a single eyebrow, stepping forward to flick the man’s camera and outright ignoring the question. “Oh, lovely. That’s a Smithers. Well, Smithers inspired maybe. He’s usually much better about hiding the seams.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting back a groan, Ben took in a neat little inhale and let it out. Yeah, the footage Snake was currently getting would have to get lost. Immediately. At least the kid had just hinted at a plausible explanation for what would no doubt amount to a convenient tendency to avoid the cameras, sparing Ben some awkward questions. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry if we came across a touch rudely the other night. That certainly wasn’t our intention.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Came?” Alex repeated dryly. He glanced back at the two men off to the side of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fair enough. This was obviously going to have to work out, this bizarre little armistice Smithers had arranged, for the foreseeable future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. They were all going to end up murdered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wolf,” Ben said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Said soldier didn’t budge for a long second. When he did withdraw, it was with a long, lingering look heavy with implied threat. “Where are my manners,” he said, in a voice that made it clear they weren’t so much as absent as wholly unneeded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin didn’t so much as twitch as the SAS soldiers shifted uneasily. After a moment of tense silence which he seemed to be more an observer of, rather than a direct participant, he reached for his pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf and Snake both tensed, putting Ben on edge in response though he did a far better job of concealing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now instead of mild blankness, there was a small undercurrent of amusement in the man as he consulted a flip phone. Snapping it shut, he glanced at Alex. “I’ve got to go. If they’re going to be here, they might as well be useful. Don’t forget you have a doctor’s appointment after school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled. “I thought that was done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another EEG.” Gregorovitch took a step towards the stairwell, before pausing and glancing back at the boy. “And remember to get lunch before you go to class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ate before we left the flat,” Alex grumbled as the man walked away. He turned back to the somewhat dumbfounded men. “I swear to god, I could be diabetic and he couldn’t get any more finicky about my blood sugar.” He snapped his fingers to get their complete attention. “Oy. Get your coats. I’m already late as it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben blinked at him, shifting impatiently in the hallway. “Pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yassen says you can walk me to school.” Alex nodded to the window at the end of the hall to make a point of the steady afternoon light as though it should be abundantly obvious what he was talking about already. “I’m doing a half day, but lunch hour is going to be over soon. Hurry up or I’m leaving without you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a distant thud. Stumbling across the floor, Eagle poked a bleary head out behind Ben. “Cub! What are you doing here? What did I miss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coats,” Alex groaned. “Just get them on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed as the cold wind bit his face. He felt like an awkwardly small mother duck, with four disproportionately larger men trailing after him like giant, befuddled ducklings. The whistling of the winter wind made it difficult to hear each other, not that it stopped any of them from trying to demand answers from him intermittently. Fortunately, no pedestrians seemed inclined to pay attention to their conversation as they passed them on the street, eager to get out of the weather. At least the metro wasn’t much further. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake put a gentle hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Because you don’t have to lie for him. If he’s done anything you feel--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the last time,” Alex snapped. “I’m not a prisoner. I live with Yassen because I want to. If he was hurting me, I wouldn’t want to stay and I would leave. Christ, Snake. Did you guys pay attention at all in Kingman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf snorted. “To be fair, brat, you were more than a little high in Kingman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To be fair, I wish I was more than a little high right now,” Alex countered as he descended the stairs and waited for them all to get tickets from the self-serve kiosks. His student pass was in his pocket, but as much as he wanted to leave them and their stupid questions behind, he knew it was beside the point. They had to get it out of their systems eventually. “Does anyone have any questions that aren’t obvious or haven’t already been asked?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben raised an eyebrow. “You do realize how bizarre this is to us, right? Don’t misunderstand-- I’m thrilled we’re on sober speaking terms now, but this whole situation is crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it,” Alex pointed out, unable to keep the thin thread of resentment from creeping into his voice. “And you lot are here to ruin the most normal part of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That earned him the odd wince of two. Ben sighed and yanked his ticket out of the printer, stepping forward with Alex as he trotted towards the turnstiles. “Look, Alex. You know we don’t want to make your life hell, but help us out here. It’s all just moved so fast. We’re missing pieces. Fill us in. Help us understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolled his eyes. “But it’s been forever. Ancient history.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex,” Ben tried, voice dropping into something that wasn’t exactly condescending but a little more gentle than expected. “You realize you’ve been with Yassen for what? A few months?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex paused, actually doing the math for the first time. It was early February now, whereas he’d arrived at the prison in… He scrunched up his face slightly, trying to use holidays as landmarks. It was trickier than he expected, given how sedated and otherwise occupied he’d been. Late October? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, maybe their shock made a little more sense. Just a little. It was kind of overwhelming to realize he’d been with Yassen for maybe three months total. It felt like much, much longer. Probably from all the time spent dodging people trying to shoot at them or drag him back to prison. Or sitting in motel rooms in mutual annoyance at the other’s taste in television programs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teen sighed. “Okay, okay. Fine. It’s odd to you, but it’s my new normal now. Yassen looks after me and I swear to god he’s not crazy or abusive or anything like that. Just-- just stop repeating the questions and take me at my word. It’s weird for everyone, but I’m not lying and sometimes there just isn’t a better answer. Things just </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> and if I wasn’t alright with it, I would have left by now. Trust me on that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf tapped him on the shoulder. “How about you just tell us how you would go about that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex squinted at him, shifting the weight of his backpack. “How I would go about what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leaving,” the man told him, crossing his arms with a scowl as a train swept into the station. He shifted slightly, glancing suspiciously at a commuter pushing past him. “You say you have a choice about being with the arsehole, so prove it. How could you leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex heaved a massive sigh. At least this was a new approach to the same, stupid problem. The variety was nice. “Well, apart from all the people who would be rather upset about me skipping out, it would be easy to slip away. I know enough Russian to read street signs. I have vast amounts of unsupervised time. Plenty of money, plus I can get much more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake raised an eyebrow. “How much more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Lots.” Alex eyed him askance. It wasn’t exactly protected information, given the unlikelihood that anyone who managed to break into their flat would bother robbing them. “Yassen keeps lots of cash on hand and showed me where it all is. I almost never use it. I’ve usually got what amounts to about a hundred pounds on me at all times--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s one hell of an allowance,” Wolf said, with a raised eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged. “Yassen’s a bit paranoid about my health, mostly. Wants me to be able to take a taxi if I get tired or eat if my blood sugar gets low. It’s stupid because I don’t even have low blood sugar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle gave him a look, heavy with doubt. “So he just gives you money?” His eyes narrowed. “What does he make you do to earn it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a flat look as his train pulled to the platform. He stepped forward, waiting for the doors to open and expel passengers. “Nothing. Sometimes I clean the flat, but I’m not supposed to if I have homework.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commuters pushed past him in a small flood. Alex ignored the SAS men while he waited for it to clear, mindful of how closely they were watching him. Ben, especially. Maybe it was the spy training or just their general yet inconvenient concern that had them constantly scanning him for any signs of bruises or suspicious injuries. Part of him knew they meant well, but a much larger part just wanted to hurl them onto the tracks and walk away. After so long of being on their own in relative isolation, Alex had thought the hardest part would be adapting to all of the droll, people laden interactions that came with living in the city. This constant scrutiny was a whole new level aggravating, especially when every effort he made to communicate this fact was met with more concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For blokes trying to reassure themselves that he had an escape route, it was a touch ironic that they were the ones who made him want to use it the most.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dropping into a seat on the train, Alex tried to smother his sudden surge of anger as he realized one SAS man had sat on either side of them, leaving Wolf and Eagle to grip the loops and poles in front of him, essentially boxing him in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was going to be a long train ride.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0054"><h2>54. Chapter 54</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben studied the boy’s tightening face, bouncing slightly as the train departed, feeling a small sense of helpless frustration coil bitterly in his chest. All of this time spent trying to figure out what was going on with him-- from the secret prison, to the weird drugs, to spotting him in Kingman, to the endless nights spent convinced the assassin was going to pitch the boy’s OD’d body into a lake somewhere-- and it had come to this. Alex was neither a coddled, confused child blissfully unaware of the situation nor a frightened victim deep in the throes of self-preservation, but somehow, Ben hadn’t expected this… undercurrent of anger. Frustration. The teen was doing a decent job of hiding it under a veneer of mild annoyance, but there were just enough split-second expressions for Ben to spot the jagged edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. He’d hoped for something a bit more… positive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What could he do? Ben stared at the side of Alex’s head as the boy folded his arms and glanced at the window. He’d wanted so badly to catch up with the pair for months, to be able to speak with Alex directly. It never occurred to him that the kid he’d encountered on his missions, the one who’d he taken a bullet beside, didn’t actually want to speak with him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” he asked. His brain caught up with him a second later and he shut his mouth, but not before he got another wicked flash of anger from the kid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m currently being hemmed in by four of the biggest prats I’ve ever met while I’m on my way to school for a half day, in which I’ll have to remember to get all the work from the lessons I’ve missed because of said prats,” Alex snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle frowned. “Look, kid, I get that you’re furious about the mission especially because of everything you went through, but we’re not MI6, not really. We’re not even here to hurt you, in fact, we’ve been worried about you and we put in a lot of effort into figure what’s going on and now to top it all off, now you’re being a little shit--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m sorry.” Alex gave the man a cold, unflinching expression. Unnervingly reminiscent of the contract killer’s. “I didn’t realize I’m obligated to be nice to any adult with the passing instinct to worry about me. Pardon me while I send Mrs. Jones flowers and chocolates. She used to be quite concerned--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Ben said hurriedly. “You’re absolutely right. You don’t owe us anything, Alex. You don’t owe any adults anything for their help. Not us, not Jones, and not even Gregorovitch--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up,” Alex snarled. “You don’t know him or me. You don’t know anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So tell us,” Snake said. “We can’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a hard look. “Why should I? You’ve already made up your minds. Nothing I’ve told you has stuck. You don’t listen. You just keep poking at me, trying to get me to help you come up with supporting details for some awful story you’ve already written in your head about what my life must be like. Problem with that is that I’m actually pretty happy here so if you don’t just fucking quit it, I’d rather you fuck right off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben took a slow deep breath. Fuck. Twenty minutes into meeting with the kid, and they’d already messed everything up. To be fair, he hadn’t anticipated Alex’s utter and complete resistance to their attempts to sort out the situation in detail, even with the little preview of his reluctance to chat for more than a minute or two that he’d gotten in Kingman. He wasn’t sure what this conversation could have done differently either. Now, the jagged silence was stretching out, broken only but the faint whine of the train engines, the sounds of the other passengers, and the soft clatter of the tracks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf swatted Snake to the side, forcing the startled man to clear some room on the bench so he could sit next to the brat. Oddly enough, in a direct inverse of everyone else in their little group, he’d only relaxed the more Alex spoke. “Alright, kid. You’ve made your point. You say you’re safe and happy where you are? Fine. I’ll take you at your word, so long as you remember to tell us if that changes. Don’t give me that look, we all know you fucking won’t, but you should.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben opened his mouth then shut it. What the hell was Wolf trying to accomplish? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he had a better idea. The spy supposed the man’s foot-in-mouth tendencies couldn’t actually make it any worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s the mission to try and prove Gregoro-bitch is less than stellar for you to be around,” Wolf went on, smirking at Alex’s twitch at his new nickname for the assassin, “but I think it’s also worth pointing out that we all--” and here Wolf jerked a hand at the rest of the team “--know damn well our mission objective is horseshit, even if we manage to accomplish it. So, new plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raised an eyebrow, but he’d also started chewing on the inside of his cheek, clearly uncertain as to where this was going. Ben was very much on the same page.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf shrugged. “New plan is to have a decent vacation in Moscow. Pestering you is definitely on the agenda, so tough shit, brat, but I don’t want to spin my wheels on the same boring topic if there’s nothing to be gained from it. This mission is doomed to fail anyway, but if we have to talk to you to tick a box, we’ll talk.” He glanced around the interior of the train compartment and then back to Alex. “What are the good restaurants around here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The train slowed suddenly as they approached the next station. Alex stood, eyebrows furrowed, clearly turning the question over in his head as he waited by the doors. What was Wolf playing at with it, exactly? It was a hard shift and absolutely didn’t fit the seriousness of the moment nor Alex’s attitude, not that the spy had any better ideas on how to get any of it back on track. Ben and the others clambered to their feet as well. No one spoke as they stepped onto the platform and got on the escalator out of the station. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Near the top, Alex finally turned back to Wolf. “If you like Thai, there’s a place not far from the flat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf nodded. “I could go for that. Usually get it twice a week when I’m on leave. There any good Chinese here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex’s nose scrunched as he walked. “There’s one across the street which used to be pretty good, but the eggrolls have been cold and kind of soggy lately. Next best Chinese is by my therapist’s office.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do they deliver?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to us. Too far, I think, but they do takeaway. This is me.” Alex halted, nodding to the school gate ahead. Ben felt his eyebrows climb-- this school had some heavy duty security. Metal detectors, uniformed guards, a thick brick wall that looked like it could withstand a nuclear strike. The teen flicked a glance around the group, before settling back on Wolf. “I’ve got an appointment after class, so Yassen’s going to pick me up. You can walk me to school tomorrow morning, if you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf nodded and glanced at his watch. “What time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“School’s at eight, so I leave at about seven thirty.” Alex gave them a final, lingering glance before turning to go. “See you later.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle waited until Cub was strictly out of earshot before rounding on Wolf. “What the fuck was that? You can’t just drop his living situation, you moron. It’s the entire fucking point. He’s obviously--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head, cutting in as he led them back down the street. It wouldn’t be practical for a bunch of strange men to be seen loitering outside of a school so heavily guarded where none of them had a child enrolled. The rest of his team followed. “He obviously doesn’t trust us. Enough to be near us, perhaps, but not enough to talk to us.” He nodded to Wolf, feeling a little late to the party but grateful someone else had gotten it started at least. “Good thinking. Go back to keeping it light. Let him relax so he’ll keep us around without bolting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf shrugged, something weary creeping across his face. He glanced away. “Took me awhile to realize the problem, but I think this is the best way about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake frowned. “You mean him not trusting us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, but the bigger one, I think, is that we never really asked ourselves why he should.” Wolf grimaced as Eagle opened his mouth, hurrying on to cut him off. “Obviously, we know our intentions are good. He doesn’t, not really. Besides, I think we’ve spent so much time obsessing over what happened to him and what’s going on in MI6, that we forgot that we don’t actually know him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben blinked. “Well, maybe not very well--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s his favorite movie?” Wolf asked him. He raised a hand to get the other two to fall silent before turning back to Ben. “Come on, Fox, you’ve spent the most time with him. He actually knows your real name. That makes you the expert. What music does he listen to? Favorite food? What personal details do you actually know about him that you didn’t read in a file?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “We didn’t really have time--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. We don’t know him and he doesn’t know us. We’re just the assholes he got stuck with for a week over a year ago. Even if he remembers us better than that, it’s still not much to go on. Definitely not enough to open up about whether or not the guy he’s been living with is secretly abusing him.” Wolf shook his head. “It’s not his fault and it’s not ours. We just don’t know each other. That’s why I say we just ease up on him and keep him talking about whatever we can. The fucking weather, if that’s all we got.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snake sighed. “I’m with Wolf. I don’t love it, but he looks healthy enough. You all saw him. He shut down quick when he realized we didn’t like his answers. I doubt he’ll put up with it much more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagle scowled. “Healthy enough is not good enough. There are loads of ways to abuse a kid that don't leave marks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he won’t tell us about those ways if we push him too soon,” Snake countered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben nodded heavily. “No, Matt. They’re right.” Everyone stiffened at the use of a non-codename. “All we got was arguing. Wolf got real intel. That Alex knows he can escape and has the resources to do it, which he implied Gregorovitch is both aware of and the reason for. He eats out a lot, he cleans the flat from time to time. He has a therapist and he leaves for school at seven thirty. That he’s willing to see us tomorrow, or maybe just Wolf.” The spy took a deep breath. “Since he did better than us at getting the kid to speak, let’s take Wolf’s lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, it was a little galling. Ben had spent weeks and months training to extract information discreetly and respond to threatening situations in the least incendiary manner. He’d been good at it. Top of his class. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last few days had torn through his ego like a bull in a china shop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four completed missions no longer seemed like enough. His training felt wholly inadequate; worse, he knew the team was dithering under his lack of actual experience leading K-unit. Wolf was much more skilled at the latter, even if the current mission called for both. He’d wondered before if it irked the other man, having to answer to a teammate nearly five years his junior. A year ago, he would have said that it was justified as Wolf wasn’t as adept at navigating social or emotional-intelligence heavy situations, but his conversation with Alex had proved otherwise. Something in him had changed since their training days. A stronger emotional maturity than he was given credit for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben felt like a clumsy teenager caught talking big, unable to deliver and no way to back out of a turning situation. Perhaps that was how Alex often felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was horrid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf nudged Eagle with his elbow, giving him a half smirk. “Come on, mate, don’t look so put out. It was your idea to merge the mission with a vacation after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eagle said, thawing slightly. There was a stiffness to him that let his teammates know he hadn’t wholly abandoned his crusade. “But what if we never find proper evidence of abuse that’s actually happening? What if he never tells us about it because we stop asking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then there’s nothing we can do for him anyway,” Snake said. “But we won’t get anywhere if he feels attacked, or like we’re attacking his… mum. To use his term. Like it or not, but Wolf’s right. He doesn’t know us, not as well as he knows this terrorist guy by now. Starting light-hearted when the stakes are real is frustrating, but I think it’s our only chance of getting him to say anything meaningful at all. We can’t treat this like our normal missions. We can’t just interrogate him in under a day, even if we try to be nice about it. He’s not a soldier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Eagle glowered at the ground, then let out a harsh breath. Crows feet seemed to have erupted around his eyes overnight. “But before anyone asks, I’m not making small talk with the assassin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf nodded immediately. “Absolutely not. Guy’s clearly an asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0055"><h2>55. Chapter 55</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! Bit of a shorter chapter this week, but hopefully the content should make up for that. As always, I love my commenters to death and would buy you all coffee and pastries if I could. My lack of replying capability is not remotely linked to my love for you all. Were I to try and put my feelings when I see the email notifications into interpretable symbols, it would mostly come out as "❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️!!!!!!!". So thank you. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex buried his face in his arms. Rather than getting to enjoy the sharp, enjoyable relief of shutting his eyes for a split second, it really only called to attention how much more tired he was than he actually thought. Damn. He really should have taken an Adderall before leaving, but he’d forgotten. The whole morning had devolved into a series of Yassen making phone calls and hashing out details with Smithers while the teen had listened in for any hint that the whole ‘let’s not kill K-unit’ plan had been disrupted. Alex certainly meant to lay down and sleep, or at least slip away to take a quick upper, but hadn’t actually gotten to it before Yassen asked him if he wanted to go to school.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have just stayed home and slept. He wasn’t going to get anything out of his lessons today except perhaps an attendance mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex yawned again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus smacked his arm, prompting Alex to sit bolt upright just as the instructor walked by to pass out last week’s sample exercises’ feedback. Alex accepted his with a polite smile that hopefully came off as more distracted than guiltily sleepy. Fortunately, he’d been half concealed by their desktop easels, so perhaps from a distance it appeared that he’d been engrossed in fetching something from his bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Short of sleep, Sasha?” Seamus asked him with a small grin as soon as the instructor was out of earshot. “You need to invite me to your wild parties, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just had a crazy night last night,” Alex muttered, scrubbing his face with his hands. But, he had to admit to himself, it had ultimately been a good one: as much as it had been a pain in the arse to babysit a high Yassen sowing chaos every fifteen or so yards, it had gone a long way in reassuring Alex about the future. If he could handle Yassen stealing a tank in his thirties, he could handle the man in his old age. He blinked owlishly at the other boy. “Thanks for covering for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus leaned back in his seat. “You can count on me. I’ve been there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doubt it,” Alex muttered under his breath. He half considered slumping forward again as Ms. Etude clapped once to signal the class to attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know we’re only a few weeks into the term,” she began, “but I wanted to give everyone the opportunity to consider their midterm projects in advance. Remember, I want to see at least five of the techniques we’ve covered and the project overall should take you about fifteen to twenty hours to complete. That’s honor system for the home portions, of course, but believe me--” she scoffed. “--I can tell when you’ve slapped something out. Now, we have five minutes before you’re dismissed so please turn to the person next to you and begin brainstorming possible subjects for your project. Get to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soft sounds of shuffling started up alongside the abrupt shift back to normal-volume conversation. Someone behind him knocked over an easel with a muttered curse, drawing laughter from the students nearby. Alex yawned again and glanced at Seamus out of the corner of his eye. “What’re you doing for the project?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus shrugged and glanced away. “I was thinking I might do a portrait. You know. Make it easy to do all the light and shadow techniques Etude goes on and on about. Figured it might score me some extra points.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Whose portrait?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus shrugged again, now looking at the floor. His ears seemed to be dusted pink. Odd. Alex didn’t think Moscow got enough fucking sun to manage that in the winter. Maybe Seamus found the room warm. “Oh, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Just whoever’s around, since we’ve got to work on it in class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could always use a photo,” Alex pointed out. “So the angle doesn’t change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.” Seamus glanced at him. “What are you going to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No idea. Figured I’d go through her supply closet and pick something. She said she’s got vases and flower arrangements in there, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seamus cracked a wry grin at him. “Maybe you can do a classic and paint a fruit bowl or something. Be a proper artist about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted and slumped forward onto the desk, cradling his head in the crook of his arms. “A proper mess, more like. I’ve got no artistic ability to speak of. Even when I was small, things like macaroni art were out of my league.” He sat up suddenly. “Actually…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dima stared at him, face delightedly aghast. “A tank?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen was careful not to allow the flood of embarrassment passing through him to show on his face. What a stupid, reckless thing he had done. He’d made costly mistakes before, of course, but screwing up a large Scorpia requisition order was completely different than playing inebriated Battlezone in downtown Moscow. No weed. Never again. He closed the window of his email account. Lord knew he didn’t have much legitimate work to do anyway: the mafia branch he represented only had a few minor issues in Australia at the moment, given Sergey’s refusal to expand current operations, and while the power vacuum caused by Yu’s Snakehead was a factor, Scorpia still had more than enough active operatives familiar with the area to handle it. “I’m astounded the museum didn’t lock it. No security. None.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My god, that boy.” Dima draped himself in one of the small chairs in front of Yassen’s desk and pulled out his pack of cigarettes, offering Yassen one. Technically, smoking wasn’t allowed in the building, but for the most part, they stuck to either of their offices, cracked a window if possible, and ignored the rule. “I can see why you want to give the kid an iPhone. There’s a tracking feature in it. Are you sure you want to give him the permission to adjust it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed, accepting the cigarette. “If he can be tracked by me, he can be tracked by MI6.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima frowned, lighting up. “Is that a problem these days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not now, but in the future perhaps. I prefer to take the cautious route the first time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mobster across from him shrugged and dug around in his suit’s internal pocket, handing over the small phone without fanfare. “Can’t fault you for that, soldatik. I already had this one unlocked and modified for Timofey, but he’s upgraded to the newest model and both twins balked at the idea of a hand-me-down. Brat used it for less than a month, but un-spoiling my children is a problem for another day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same features as mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slightly older model, with some extra modifications.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Setting his cigarette aside, Yassen examined the small black and silver phone. He slid his finger across the screen, examining the menus. “How do you disable the tracking then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same toggle in the main menu. Don’t give me that look, I know that when you disable the cell connection, you can still potentially be tracked by your cell provider if the phone remains on. I had my own tech people go through and sever that connection entirely so the phone can still use the camera and things like that. No phone calls, of course, until you turn the feature back on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Yassen flipped it over, studying the back of the case. “Is the battery removable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima held up a finger. “Typically, no, but again, I had my people fix the problem. See the bottom edge there, next to the speaker? That switch isn’t on the normal models. When it’s flicked, it dismounts the battery without the need to get a tiny screwdriver and spend a good ten minutes getting the damn thing off. In a pinch, he can use that to kill the phone’s signals completely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen flicked a glance at the man. “And there’s no mafia specific tracking or backdoor software, I trust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima snorted and shook his head. “Absolutely not. You think I wish to give Sergey constant access to my children’s whereabouts? More importantly, you think I wish to see my teenage child’s search history?” He scowled around his cigarette. “I got quite the wakeup call when I used the desktop computer I used to make the children share. Never again. They all got individual laptops after that. I don’t know who was watching what and I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen knew the man could sense his amusement, but didn’t bother trying to quash it. “That’s a boldly hypocritical stance coming from someone who didn’t even bother hiding his Playboy magazines under his mattress as a teen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima gave him a flat look and stubbed out his cigarette in the pen tray they’d been using as an improvised ashtray for the last few days. “Nudie mags are one thing, the internet is another. Hell, I figured with the whole Lada situation, I was getting off easy by only raising girls. As it turns out, pornography is no place for sexism.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have no idea. I don’t know which one of my children is inappropriately enamored with horses and I would hate nothing more than finding out.” Dima grimaced and waved a hand at the ceiling. “No one warns you about the awful parts of parenting. The horrible conversations you must have. I stumbled through it somehow, if you count summoning them all together, making vague statements about urges, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>phases</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and wearing condoms, before distributing laptops like a relief doctor pushing vaccines during a measles outbreak. It was horrid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t help it. He turned his head away from his lit cigarette and snickered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima gave him a glower, but there was little heat in it. Surely he knew it was funny. He sighed. “Oh, stop it. Knowing Alex, yours was at least as bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speak of the devil. Glancing at the clock, Yassen shoved the phone in his jacket pocket and stubbed out the little remaining bit of his cancer stick. It was nearly five. If he left a few minutes early, he could be at Goldstone just as Alex made it to the gates. “That’s the silver lining in acquiring someone else’s teenager: he’s old enough that I don’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but that’s cheating,” Dima grumbled. He pursed his lips suddenly. “How old is Alex again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifteen. He merely looks younger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima held up a hand. “Are you sure he’s had the talk? It sounds to me that his life has been chaotic since about the time he should have gotten it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen snorted, wiggling his mouse just long enough to shut down his computer. “Don’t you start, Dima.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man spread his hands. “If you insist. I’m sure it’s very possible he’s had things explained properly to him, and is not just operating on an assumption of knowledge from whatever wild tales he’s heard in the school yard. He’s bright. Of course, there are plenty of bright children his age who end up getting other teenagers pregnant or infected with something because they think you only need to take birth control on the days you wish to have intercourse or that condoms are washable. I’m sure he’s not one of those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a hard look as he grabbed his coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima shrugged, eyes wickedly ghoulish. “I mean, you are a cautious man. Relax. This is normal dad stuff. Or perhaps you really are off the hook, since he calls you Mum.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0056"><h2>56. Chapter 56</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! </p><p>Sorry it was nearly late. Life is chaos and I'm half moving again but also painting and ???? many other things???? I don't know. Coherency will be a thing I achieve next week. Hopefully.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex grumbled to himself as he strode over to Yassen, running his fingers through his hair and pitying his poor scalp. No wonder girls always went for the hair in a fight. Fortunately, he’d gotten to skip the SUV fleet today since the tests were mostly just follow ups and could be performed at a local hospital rather than some secret SVR facility. Of course, that didn’t stop Vankin from dropping in mid-procedure to draw Yassen into another room for another conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both men waited for him in the brightly lit hallway as he exited the ward. A doctor stood beside them, collecting a quick set of signatures from both of them before consulting his phone and striding away. Vankin nodded to Alex as he approached, while Yassen’s eyes flicked to where Alex’s fingers were busy unhappily rubbing his head. “Did the electrodes burn you?” the assassin asked him, frowning slightly. As soon as Alex was in range, he grabbed his forehead to check. “They shouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Alex scowled. “They just got caught in my hair and yanked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin snorted. “Perhaps that is a sign from the universe that you should consider a trim.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a flat look enough to rival sour, week-old beer and turned back to Yassen. “Can we go yet?” It was nearly seven in the evening. If they hurried, the entire day wouldn’t be devoted to more fucking tests. Alex might even stand a chance of going to bed early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man shook his head. “The doctors want another MRI.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled. “Why? I’ve done at least four in the last month alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And each time they were looking for something slightly different,” Yassen pointed out. “This is to be certain nothing was missed. It’ll hardly take long. Come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed and turned on his heel to follow them back in. “This is such a waste of time. I feel fine. The hallucinations are barely a problem. Even the absence seizures are rarer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If there’s even a hint of lingering brain damage, we want to catch it,” Vankin said, with just enough wistfulness to make Alex eye him askance. The man paid his look no mind. “It’s a pity, really. A long term brain injury would be perfect for the case, though undoubtedly less thrilling for you. At least we have the absence seizures documented. The doctor said they caught one just now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged, looking away. “It was only a short one. Maybe four seconds long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll have to do.” Their handler held open the curtain of an exam room for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Less than a minute later, a nurse entered with a hospital gown and an IV line. With a grimace, Alex started yanking off his shirt to change. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d let him take a nap in the machine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yassen crossed his arms, keeping an eye on Alex both through the large window that overlooked the actual MRI area and on the monitor currently being observed by a neurology tech. The boy looked tired and annoyed, but was complying with every request, obviously looking forward to being done for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allowing the top sheet of paper to flick back into place, Vankin finished reviewing the results on the clipboard. “Well, the EEG was somewhat inconclusive. His brain activity is out of the normal range, but not by as much as we’d hoped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen allowed himself a small scowl. “So, essentially, he’s brain damaged just enough to suffer impairment but not enough to prove it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ambiguous to a certain degree,” Vankin agreed. “Just enough to be difficult to lay at the feet of MI6. We just need a handful of symptoms to point to, though no doubt MI6 will attempt to have their own testing done that interprets things in their favor. Is there anything else you can think of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “Nothing serious. A vision exam, perhaps, but the doctor who told us that his vision had deteriorated slightly also said this was about the right age for it to do so. Nothing conclusive or helpful, I’m sure, even if he may require glasses in a few years.” He paused, glancing at Vankin and at the tech currently operating the machine. “I know in some rare cases brain damage is reversible. Is it possible that Alex is one of those cases?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked about that.” Vankin frowned. “It’s technically possible, just unlikely. Children have an easier time recovering, but Alex should be outside of that window. Ironically, perhaps, A216 might have given him an edge against it by keeping his neuroplasticity high. Still. There should be some signs of tissue damage even if other parts of his brain have stepped in to restore functioning.” He glanced at Yassen consideringly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but for the sake of being thorough, I must ask. Is it possible he’s faked any of his symptoms?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His SVR handler sighed. “I thought you’d say as much. Psychosomatic causes are also unlikely in the doctor’s opinion, but not impossible to rule out with the injections having so many unknown effects. Either way, it would be MI6’s fault. Of course, a case could be made that he’s prone to hysteria if they can paint some of his behavior in the right light.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen studied the man. “Do you think MI6 will take that approach in court?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right now they are trying very hard to avoid confirming Alex’s identity or their knowledge of him at all. Down the road, I imagine that they will have to consider it a viable route of defense. Don’t let it concern you now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract killer fell silent, glancing back at the screen in time to catch Alex yawning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try to hold still please,” the neurology tech asked, pressing the button that activated the intercom in the machine. “The machine is very sensitive. Movement makes it difficult to capture the shots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” the boy muttered. “Can’t help it. I’m sleepy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re nearly done. Just a little more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin frowned at his papers and sighed. “I’ll order the eye test anyway. God knows we need every scrap of evidence we can get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another night,” Yassen told him. “I doubt it’s urgent and he’s close to the limit of his patience as it is. Besides, I’m sure he has school work to complete before it is too late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin gave him a side glance. “His tantrums still bad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They happen,” Yassen allowed. “But less than they did in the States and significantly less than in prison. It is difficult to ascribe precisely what sets them off. As brain damage seems to be a little less likely, his mood swings may be due to stress. It could be his drug abuse. It could be the A216 leaving his system. He might have just always been this prone to temper without me noticing, but he seems to think otherwise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Document them if you can anyway,” Vankin said, voice heavy with the annoyed understanding that Yassen would not. He turned to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen almost didn’t ask, but after a split second, realized he didn’t know which of Alex’s several doctors to address the question to instead. Not that he was confident any of them would speak to him without involving Vankin anyway. “Find out when the doctors advise to start him on hormonal therapy,” he said. “I will need to update his therapist, as they will likely carry psychological side effects.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin paused in the doorway. “I’ll make some inquiries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The neurology tech activated the intercom again. “Great job, Sasha. You’re all done. I’ll send in a nurse to get that IV out of your arm.” A pause. “Sasha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen stiffened, feeling a sharp bolt of adrenaline course through him. Another seizure? Some other fit? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wasted effort, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On screen, Alex snorted slightly and twisted in the scanning cradle, eyes popping open and blinking. “Sorry, sorry. Fell asleep. What did you say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vankin snorted and raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll have a car stay behind to drive you home. Tell him good luck with his school work tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex raised his eyebrows as he crossed the street the next morning, tugging his scarf aside just enough to speak without being muffled. “No Eagle or Snake?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cool your jets, brat. It hardly takes a four man team to walk you to school. Your life isn’t that complicated.” Wolf straightened from where he’d been leaning against a streetlight and obviously waiting for him. “It’s not like we don’t have other things to do with our time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled up at him. “Horse shit. Your entire mission revolves around being a pain in my arse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise the pain goes both ways, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gross.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I meant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben was busy stamping his feet from the cold. “We figured the entire unit stuck out the last time. There’s no need to draw attention to ourselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not wrong,” Alex agreed, starting the long walk to the metro station. Alright, it was hardly a few blocks, but it felt like much further in the cold. Shifting his scarf again, he tugged his coat’s hood up to protect his ears from the wind. “Let’s get a move on. There’s a pastry place beside the station and if you’re nice, I’ll let you buy me breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t even argue with that one,” Wolf said, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He glanced at the overcast city sky with a wary look. Like Alex, he probably could feel the imminent snowfall condensing in the air like the spite of a vengeful deity. “Since that Thai place turned out to be decent. Good call.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have excellent taste.” Alex glanced at the man who’d flanked him on either side. With only half of the unit present, it was a lot less claustrophobic even if he was hyper aware of how easily they could try to grab him if his back was turned. It required way less attention to keep track of where everyone was, at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A split second later, Ben and Wolf were somehow standing in front of him, while Ben shook his shoulder with a worried frown. Wolf was studying his face and snapping his fingers in front of his face, obviously in the middle of trying to get his attention. “--wake up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinked and glanced around. They were exactly where he’d remembered, though he’d come to a standstill. “Another absence seizure?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf squinted. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get those now,” Alex ground out, cross suddenly. He was willing to tolerate K-Unit being around, certainly, especially if that meant no one got in trouble or murdered or whatever overkill option Yassen or the SVR deemed ‘prudent’, but that didn’t mean he really wanted more spectators to the shitshow portions of his life post-MI6. Not that there was anything he could do about it, really. Honestly, he’d thought he’d already resigned himself to explaining everything from scratch and assuming his case made it to court, it was inevitable that he’d be doing it again and again in the future. “Probably just from all the head injuries on my missions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben retracted his arm as Alex shook it off his shoulder and began striding towards the station again. Anything to avoid standing around while Fox and Wolf got used to the damn idea. The last thing he needed was another file full of attendance problems and missed classes. “That was a seizure? How long have you had them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sighed. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. A doctor only diagnosed me with them… a month ago, I guess. They’ve been happening for longer, but Yassen just thought I was absent minded. I don’t realize when I have them, unless someone tells me or the difference is obvious. They’re not that big of a deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Epilepsy isn’t a big deal?” Wolf demanded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a flat look. “Compared to everything else that’s happened to me in the last year? I don’t spend much time worrying about being a bit spacey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why you were getting an EEG last night,” Ben said, after a moment. He exchanged a look with his teammate. “How did it go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Alex said automatically. “Like I said, they’re small. The doctors say they probably won’t get any worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you got this from working for MI6?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, Wolf. Probably.” Alex folded his arms. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s bad enough that so much of my free time is spent going to doctors and preparing for this stupid court thing--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” the soldier agreed easily, though Alex could detect his reluctance to leave the topic alone. Alex wasn’t just being an asshole-- they just didn’t know that much about why he had them. His doctors could confirm that he had them, but not much else: not when they started, where they originated from, nothing. “What are you taking in school?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a sidelong look as they reached the stairs leading into the station. It was a harmless question, but Yassen’s paranoia had rubbed off on him. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a tactical reason to ask, even though he was mostly certain they were just chatting him up. “How much of this is going to get back to MI6?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben waved a hand. “Not as much as you think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex pressed his lips together. Right. Ben was in a sticky situation too, so he really shouldn’t expect a direct answer. Now what Alex really wanted to know was how freely he could speak with the unit, but he couldn’t ask that directly since Smithers implied that none of them knew that the spy was feeding information to the enemy. It was already a big enough pain to have to deal with his old unit to begin with, much less watch everything he said when they were around to ensure he wasn’t implicating Fox. “Well, I suppose my school work is hardly classified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless you’re taking advanced bomb making, I’d hope not.” Wolf raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex gave him a dry look. “I wish. For a school that caters to the children of wealthy expats and mafia kids, it’s surprisingly dull. I was hoping for like, at least a small turf war. But no. Everyone gets along for the most part and studies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You go to a mafia school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A boring mafia school,” Alex corrected. “Apparently it’s neutral territory and anyone who does anything to threaten that gets expelled immediately. It’s the only trouble you can’t bribe your way out of at Goldstone. Anyways, I like my classes fine. I’m a bit behind because of how much school I missed back at Brooklands but I’ll graduate when I’m eighteen like a lot of the other students, so I guess it’s not so bad. English is my worst subject, ironically….”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0057"><h2>57. Chapter 57</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Happy Monday, everyone! This week's chapter is a little on the short side, but it's more fun with K-unit and Alex so.... :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ben watched Alex crumple his paper carefully around the final quarter of his sausage and cheese pastry twenty minutes later. So far, Wolf’s strategy seemed to be holding up: Alex seemed semi-content to chat with them, provided the topics stayed neutral and a little impersonal. He clearly wasn’t exactly thrilled with the conversations, but his expression seemed to lighten the longer it went on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--and so that’s fine, I guess. Less studying to do when I get home, but honestly, my hip feels well enough for sport again.” Alex frowned and stood from the bench they’d been sitting on while they’d eaten, jerking his head at the train pulling into the station. He tucked the wrapper in his pocket. “We’d better catch this one. I’m a little behind and I don’t want more attendance marks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf chucked his own wrapper into a bin as he passed, glancing around the ornate station with a somewhat owlish look. He probably hadn’t had time to take in the views the other day, as wrapped up in the non-conversation the team had been trying to have with Alex at the time. “What happens if you get them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex raised an eyebrow. “I have to make them up at the end of the semester.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben cleared his throat as they stepped onto the train. “Is that all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rush hour in Moscow was in full force, meaning the train was packed full of commuters in a hurry to get across town before the day started properly. Bleary eyed students in uniforms were sprinkled about the car, juxtaposed against businessmen in suits, and the odd elderly pensioner. While Ben usually appreciated the diversity of city life as it made it much, much easier to avoid attention, in this case it made him nervous to speak too directly. There was no guarantee which casual bystanders spoke enough English to understand that their conversation with the schoolboy was odd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy rolled his eyes as he grabbed a commuter strap. “My mum won’t beat me or anything like that. He never has and I doubt he ever will. That goes for video games too. It’s the only thing he’s only okay at.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf furrowed his eyebrows, half opening his mouth. Closed it. Decided to go with something other than pouncing on the oddness of the assassin being willing to do that at all. “What games do you play with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprise flitted across the boy’s face, quickly suppressed. “There hasn’t been much time lately, but we used to play Halo a lot. Mario Kart once or twice. Why? Do you play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf shook his head, shrugging at Alex’s disbelieving look. “Didn’t have any consoles growing up, so I didn’t bother buying one when I moved out on my own. What? It’s not that weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t you at least go over to your mate’s place and use theirs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I worked after school,” Wolf said, lips twisting. He seemed to notice Alex’s suddenly pensive look and quickly glanced at Ben in an effort to redirect. “You’d better ask the team’s baby-- well, after you, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for that,” Ben muttered. “Actually, I played a lot before I joined up. PC games, mostly. I’d just hole up by myself for days if I didn’t have school, at least until my mum forced me to take breaks for eating and such.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were a proper nerd,” Alex snorted. “What were you playing that was so good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Diablo II.” Ben scratched his neck, wincing. “And the Sims.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are so old, Fox,” Alex groaned. “That barely counts anymore. Okay, so Wolf was born grumpy and you were one of the first computer geeks back from the dawn of the floppy disk--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was on CD-ROM,” Ben grumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex grinned, eyes gleaming with mirth as the train stopped briefly and a crowd of students pushed off past them. “Oh, because that makes it--” he cut off, suddenly as the train pulled away from the station. His thin lips pressed together, eyes darting about. “Hold that thought. Let’s switch ends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben barely had time to process that before Alex was scooting across the train, somehow avoiding smacking anyone with his backpack as he wove between passengers like an agitated blonde monkey. He exchanged startled glances with Wolf, feeling himself tense slightly. Ben flicked down his sunglasses as he followed, trying to figure out just what had gotten the kid so worked up. The car had only picked up about a half dozen new people at the last station, especially on the opposite end from them. A middle-aged businessman, followed by a group of preteen girls in school uniforms. Alex hadn’t displayed any alarm at anyone entering the doors nearest to them, so who had he seen that had raised such a response-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex halted, four feet ahead of a lone dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dog itself was only a little unusual. Large and tan, it had the build of a boxer with the long hair and pointed ears of a malamute, blended together with the ambiguousness of a mutt. Despite wearing no collar, he displayed no skittishness nor interest at being surrounded by people, merely a tense sort of watchfulness though no one sought to bother him. A quick glance around revealed no obvious owner, though a few locals glancing up seemed remarkably unconcerned by it’s presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teen dug the rest of his pastry out of his pocket and carefully unwrapped it where the dog could see, before edging forward with the treat loosely grasped in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dog sniffed the air ever so slightly before offering a low, short warning growl. Alex slowed but didn’t quite stop his approach. With a distrusting glance up at the boy’s face, the dog snatched the food from his hand as soon as it was in range, swallowed it, and gave the kid such a sharp look of reproach that Ben was tempted to yank Alex back before he got bitten. Alex paused, glancing away as though completely unworried, but didn’t move out of the dog’s space immediately. It watched him like a furry, disapproving hawk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex?” Ben began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on,” the boy snapped. “He’s only here for a minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a short crackle, the intercom sprang to life, announcing the next station. As soon as the doors opened, the dog padded away and onto the platform, disappearing into the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex spun around to face them, crumpling the empty wrapper and shoving it back into his pocket. “Alright, I’m done.” He took in their faces and shrugged. “He’s a metro dog, just not one of the nice ones that let you pet it. We’re working on trust exercises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf glanced at the spot where the dog had sat and then back at the station as the train pulled away. “Wouldn’t the metro give it a collar or something if it were theirs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben shook his head. “It’s not a working dog. One of the strays, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex nodded cheerfully, shifting his backpack as the intercom announced the stop closest to Goldstone. “Yeah, there’s thousands of them, only they’re really clever for having no training. Some have figured out how to use public transport to save on walking. It’s really neat. They’ve even got little packs and will send out the cutest dogs to beg. Everyone takes care of them, for the most part, though now they’re talking about rounding them up and neutering them so there won’t be so many. I’m studying them for my Immersion midterm project.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you’re telling your mum?” Wolf drawled as he grabbed a recently vacated pole to stabilize himself. “That you're not trying to backdoor a pet, it’s just your schoolwork?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorted, raising his chin slightly. “Nikita’s no one’s pet. He’s too independent. I just want to one day pet him. It’s different.” His forehead scrunched as he glanced out the window. “Besides, I can have any pet I like. He said so when we were in the States.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf raised his eyebrows. “Brilliant. What was he bribing you for when he promised that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben gave him a sharp look, tempted to smack the other man. Wasn’t he the one who pointed out how defensive Alex was to any criticism of the Scorpia terrorist in the first place?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his amazement, Alex just laughed as he got off at the next stop. “He made me give up a stray puppy I found on the side of the road and he hated. Impossible to train. Turns out, that was because he was a baby coyote.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re joking,” Ben said, scrutinizing Alex’s face for any hint of deceit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe a little,” Alex said, twisting to give Fox a thin smirk. “I actually suspect Yassen kind of liked Trouble at the end, at least as much as he despised him, but don’t tell him I said that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it was a coydog. One of those mixes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Wolf. It was an actual, proper coyote. Pup, anyway. We found him on the side of the road.” Alex sighed as they emerged onto the street. Traffic slid to and fro around them, the occasional horn honking as it rushed past. “I was quite sad to see him go, but we really couldn’t keep him with us being in the car so much. The shelter said there was a wildlife sanctuary with a whole litter when I dropped him off, so he’d even have friends while they figured out if he could go back into the wild. He was pretty savage and loved biting. I bet he’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They halted in front of Goldstone Academy. Ben took a split second to survey the unnecessary amount of security features again-- which suddenly made a lot more sense given the origins of the student body. Christ. A school full of tiny, future mobsters. Assuming, of course, any parents actually wanted their children to follow in their footsteps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wolf nodded to the gate just as Alex reached it. “Want us to walk you home tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shook his head and scowled. “I’ve got therapy on Fridays. Maybe Monday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right then. Monday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A mutual silence fell over them as they watched the short blonde head join the flood of children trying to make it through the security gates before they were officially marked as late. His little ponytail served as a tiny tracker, practically drawing a little arrow over his head as he shuffled forward in line to pass through the metal detector and out of sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older SAS soldier turned to look at Ben. “Did we just get a recording saying Gregorovich let him keep a coyote?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0058"><h2>58. Chapter 58</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: SORRY I'M LATE!!!! I'm currently in the process of moving again and it's wild and time is a construct anyway and oh good lord there's still so much I have to do....</p><p>Enjoy the chapter, though. ^^</p><p>P.S. Also, sorry if you tried to add my story to a collection! I only recently found the notifications/right page to approve them. Everything's approved and it should be set to automatically approve any future requests. ❤️❤️❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dr. Werner nodded to Yassen as he entered, already perched in his chair and stroking Minka’s head. He perused whatever scribbles he’d recorded from Alex’s just-finished session and gestured to the couch opposite himself, flipping to a fresh page on his notepad. “Mr. Gregorovich, thank you for coming today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sat, expression carefully neutral. He hadn’t listened in on the boy’s session for more than a minute or two, mostly to ensure that Alex wasn’t being interrogated or subtly set up to his detriment. Nothing stood out to him. When Alex emerged from his session an hour later, he’d seemed tired and frustrated, but not exactly angry or defensive. It was probably fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First, let’s follow up on last week’s concerns. Have you made any changes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen nodded. “I stocked the pantry and freezer. Everything else is as it was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent. And have you received any visits aimed at determining the fitness of your home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They might not, but I’d recommend always assuming it could happen any day now. The government does like checking boxes,” the man said, a touch dryly. He flipped the page over to consult his notes again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen suppressed a twitch as the little black cat stretched and glanced over at him before perking up. Of course the damn animal would take a liking to him. “Anything you’d like to notify me of regarding Alex?” he asked, hoping to hasten things along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing to report this week,” Werner answered without glancing up. “As I said in our last session, I expect it will take some time before he relaxes enough to actually consider me a viable form of treatment. Progress is progress, though. He only needed five minutes to search my office for surveillance this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” Yassen didn’t doubt that. He’d noticed Alex take out his little iPod briefly, but spent most of his time just sitting. Probably avoiding actual therapy. Yassen didn’t entirely blame him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If there’s nothing pressing that you wish to update me about,” Werner continued. “Why don’t return to our discussion of your current approach. I’d like to broaden the question, specifically. How do you see yourself in relation to Alex?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen raised an eyebrow. “That is a broad question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps too broad,” Werner agreed with a gentle tilt of his head. “What would you say your role in his life is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was actually a decent question. Yassen hadn’t exactly pondered the question directly before. He’d always just focused on what he was doing for Alex today versus what he hoped to achieve for the boy in the future. What it would cost him. What he could stand to give. He hadn’t put much thought into how Alex saw him (beyond his concerns of his own ego), or what role Yassen was playing in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I look after him,” Yassen said finally. “I help him when he needs it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner nodded thoughtfully. “And what term would you apply to your relationship, if you had to pick one? I understand your situation is quite unorthodox, so don’t be afraid to pick one that doesn’t quite fit but perhaps contains the spirit of the thought. We can qualify and talk about any distinctions later. This is about figuring out where to start. If someone were to ask Alex, ‘so who is Yassen to you’, he would respond ‘Yassen is my...?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That ripped a snort from the man. “Mum. Alex has been going around introducing me as his mum as of late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner smiled slightly, though he didn’t seem remotely surprised. Likely it had come up in his own sessions with the boy. “And would you agree?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you describe me as the motherly type, Doctor?” Yassen returned, unable to prevent his lip from curling ever so slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a good deflection,” Werner said mildly. “But unnecessary. I understand that the topic might make you uncomfortable, but that’s one of the reasons why it’s worth discussing. Creating clarity for both of you. So. Why do you think Alex calls you his Mum?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen couldn’t quite help the dryness infiltrating his tone. The little black cat decided this was a great time to hop up on the couch beside him and headbutt his hand. He reluctantly began stroking her, paying special attention to the creases behind her ears. “Because he thinks it's amusing. I suppose he got tired of the staff in the prison referring to me as his babysitter and turned the joke on me instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think there’s any genuine overlap in the needs you help him fulfill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course there is, but it’s about the same as any other title you’d give to an adult looking after him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Werner made a small note and adjusted his glasses. “Regardless of how Alex would describe you, what word would you use to describe your relationship? How would you introduce yourself, should someone ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shook his head. “I don’t think there is one. Guardian, perhaps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Werner wrote something down before sharply circling it. “That’s an interesting choice. One who protects and takes responsibility for a child, with no implied familial relation or emotional connotation. Would you say that’s accurate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner steepled his fingers together, considering Yassen for a long moment. “Would you say that as his guardian, that you have any authority over him? Any expectation of control?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen twisted his lips. “That sounds like a fantasy. You’ve met him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it that you do not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen actually paused to consider that. “I consider myself to have authority on certain topics regarding our safety and security,” he said slowly. “But I do not consider myself to have control over him nor do I expect to. I do have an expectation of influence, but only that he will listen to me and consider what I have to say. Enforcing my will on him is something I do only concerning serious matters of safety, as it essentially guarantees he won’t listen to me for weeks afterwards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His trust is hard earned. I think it is wise of you to not take it lightly.” Werner flicked back a page or two. “Would you say that this is why, according to Alex, you do not punish him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps. It certainly doesn’t support my goals as far as he is concerned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those goals being?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To help him survive to adulthood without ODing, being used as a spy, or going to prison,” Yassen said, crossing his legs. “Punishing him is pointless. He doesn’t do things for no reason and he resents any attempts to control or manipulate him. Imposing arbitrary penalties on him neither changes his behavior nor perspective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner tapped his pen against his lips. “You sound quite certain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried the authoritarian route first,” Yassen admitted. He paid extra attention to Minka’s cheekbones and got a steady purr in return. Discussing his failures was unpleasant, but pertinent. Yassen was hoping to get some insight from these sessions after all. “In prison. It lasted all of one day because the results were so terrible. Realizing that quashing his independence was counterproductive saved me a lot of time, so I shifted to just trying to help him navigate certain situations as much as possible. He is only occasionally an idiot, so reasoning with him is generally on the table. It’s not foolproof, but at least now he listens to me occasionally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Setting aside his notebook, Dr. Werner folded his hands on his lap and considered the assassin sitting across from him in the warm light of his office. “Would you say that you disapprove of authoritarian methods in general?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen shrugged. “In this matter, yes. Everything has its place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this is not the place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ve seen any children respond particularly well to it, no, though I wouldn’t call myself an expert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were your parents authoritarian with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen furrowed his brows. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no reason Werner should be probing the topic, as far as Yassen could see. Perhaps he’d misattributed the manner in which these sessions could be used against him. He didn’t exactly sense Vankin’s hand in this, but he didn’t discount the idea out of hand. Perhaps instead of using Alex’s care as an excuse to pump the boy for information, Yassen was the intended target by requiring these support sessions. There was no other circumstance in which Yassen would consent to thera--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The psychiatrist seemed oblivious to his thoughts and shrugged half apologetically. “I know it seems a little off topic, but the way our parents raise us shapes how we see the world and our relationships within them-- especially the way we view the appropriate way to respond to children. It no doubt impacts the way you regard Alex and what’s best for him.” Werner waved a hand. “I need to understand his environment, so to speak. So fill me in. Show me your perspective’s origins. How did the adults in your life treat you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s lips thinned. “I was raised in a small town not terribly far from here. Authoritarian was the default.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is a quite common approach, certainly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen went on, mostly looking for any hint that the man was going to sidle the conversation to the topic of Estrov. On the details. Focusing on his general environment and home life could go either way, though Yassen supposed it was quite possible that the man was asking strictly for the reasoning offered.  “Physical punishment was common at school, as were revoking privileges and assigning unpleasant tasks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it the same at home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Occasionally. My father worked for most of his time rather than tend to me but my mother was not inclined to beat me the way my friend’s parents might. The occasional slap, but nothing severe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was slapping the prevalent manner of discipline in your household? No scoldings or time outs or anything like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scoldings, certainly. Extra chores. My father might lecture me on the rare occasion he involved himself. Those were probably the main ones, actually. As I said, my parents were not inclined to physically discipline me, especially as I got older.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good, very good. So do you think that these more verbal methods of correcting your behavior as a child is one of the reasons you see little merit in punishing Alex today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen blinked. “Perhaps. It was… not unfamiliar to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent. One final thing, since we are nearly out of time.” Werner flipped open his notebook for a final time and clicked his pen into action. “Would you say that as Alex’s guardian, that you also fulfill the role of a parent?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen’s hand stilled where it was stroking Minka’s head. “There’s overlap,” he said at length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Werner waved a hand. “Why don’t we explore that more in depth in our next session? Give you some time to consider the idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well.” Gently pushing the cat off his lap, Yassen took his leave. For some reason, the sight of Alex tucking his iPod back into his pocket inspired more anxiety than it should have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alex shrugged as he followed Yassen towards his favorite Chinese place. Perhaps it was overly optimistic of him, but he was rather hoping that if he said nothing about eating here on Friday evenings becoming a tradition, Yassen wouldn’t nix the practice on the premise of it being an unacceptable habit. It really was quite good and they were never in the neighborhood otherwise. It wasn’t actively snowing, thank god, but it was cold enough he drew his hood up to protect his ears from the chill.  “Not much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older man gave him a wry look. “So you sat in silence for the better part of an hour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex huffed. “Obviously not. I certainly would have if it were an option.” At Yassen’s lack of a response, obviously prompting him to continue, Alex added, “We just talked a bit more about me settling in. About K-unit, though I didn’t give him any details about you getting high or the business with the tank. Mostly just how annoyed I was to find out that they were here. At the end he tried to get me to talk about medications again, but I shut that down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a lull. Or at least Alex had thought there had been, at least until Yassen spoke. Perhaps he’d just been taking the time to consider his phrasing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you so resistant to the idea of taking medication?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex shot him a thin look. He nearly couldn’t believe Yassen would even bother asking. “I’m sick of medication. All the worst parts of prison were medication. No good has ever come from taking any.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen didn’t so much as break stride. “I hope you’re including your opiate problem in that estimation. Finding a proper medication may well be the difference between you thriving and falling woefully behind yourself. Consider it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The weed drops are working just fine,” Alex said, crossing his arms. “Would you consider taking something that alters the way you think and feel? Don’t bullshit me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen sighed. “I’m not the one with panic attacks and mood swings. If it’s a chemical problem, it requires a chemical solution.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex scowled. “Look at my life, Yassen. Did it ever occur to either of you that my panic attacks and paranoia might just be common sense? I panicked the other day because I thought I saw a camera lense and it turned out to be bloody K-unit spying on us. I’m not going to take happy pills and lose my edge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly what category do you think the weed and Vicodin fall under?” Yassen snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Halting in his tracks, Alex crossed his arms and scowled at the slush covered pavement. Fucking hell. One of these days, he’d have to crack the secret of hiding his emotions under a blank mask like Yassen did, but for now he’d count on his crossness to conceal the stinging hurt. He’d thought Yassen had accepted Alex for his problems; yeah he didn’t like the opiods, but he promised Alex he wouldn’t cut him off cold turkey or act like he didn’t need them. Maybe Yassen had just been deferring the fight. It wasn’t really accepting Alex’s choices if he tried to browbeat him into making different ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least I take those when I want them,” Alex said finally. “At least I know what those side effects do to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yassen gave him a long look. “Is that the real reason or do you just not want to reduce or eliminate the amount of Vicodin you take in order to safely try any new medication?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Food be damned. Alex stalked straight past the restaurant and directly to the train station. He wasn’t going to put up with this shit, least of all from Yassen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, he’d expected it least of all from Yassen. Obviously, that was a mistake. Maybe he’d just gotten too comfortable around the contract killer, he realized with no small amount of bitterness. The older man had always disapproved of Alex’s habits, but had gone along with whatever had been working to keep him functional at the time. It was still working, though! His pill consumption was steady and unchanging-- assuming you didn’t count his secret adderall stash-- and he wasn’t even using them to get high anymore. Yeah, fine, he’d gotten a little out of it a while back when he’d nearly given himself frostbite on the balcony, but really that was the only time. Why did Yassen have to mess with a system that was working? Couldn’t Alex just get a break for more than a week at a time?</span>
</p>
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